


Summer Rose

by chanderson



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, New York City, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Beatles, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-06-14 16:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15392583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: John and Paul rekindle their relationship late summer 1980. John's feeling lost, and Paul's missing him in more ways than one.





	1. Dear Friend

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a play off the song Winter Rose/Love Awake off the Wing's album Back to the Egg. 
> 
> If you wanna know the mindset I was in while writing this, I listened to a lot of solo Paul and John/Anthology. Some of the main ones:
> 
> I Know (I Know)  
> Dear Friend  
> Grow Old with Me  
> Now and Then  
> Free as a Bird  
> Real Love  
> Daytime Nighttime Suffering  
> How Do You Sleep?  
> Maybe I'm Amazed  
> Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dear friend, throw the wine  
>  I'm in love with a friend of mine_
> 
> -Dear Friend, Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I worked low key super hard on this fic and am pretty proud of it! I did a SHIT TON of research to make sure the setting and such was realistic and detailed (down to looking up the weather in New York in August 1980 jfc I have a problem lmao). I don't specify a month, but in my mind it's August. 
> 
> Any mistakes are my own, but I tried to comb through it and fact check as much as possible. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy this first chapter! Sorry it's super fcking long. I didn't want to split it up into multiple chapters b/c I feel like it would've messed with the flow.

** Paul. **

Paul is unbelievably stoned — _mistakenly,_ unbelievably stoned. It was a sadly irresponsible mistake to make here in the Eastmans’ nice Hamptons home with the children weaving about between the adults’ legs and the low hum of small talk in the air. Jodie Eastman is talking to him about this, that, and the other — a new client John and Lee have taken on, he thinks — and he can barely see straight, an uncomfortable nausea churning low in his gut.

It had seemed like a great idea at the time: steal away to the bathroom for a quick joint and then rejoin the party, but Paul had underestimated how good the weed was. And to top it off, he was already drunk off three martinis.

He’s busy desperately searching the crowd for Linda, feeling a deep need to see her building in his chest like a rapidly inflating balloon, when Jodie mentions John — his John. He blinks and fumbles to find his words. His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth.

“Uh, sorry, John?” he asks, feigning ignorance. Judging by the furrowing of Jodie’s eyebrows, it’s obvious how fucked up he is, and he feels a flush of embarrassment.

“John Lennon,” she says slowly, like she’s talking to a young, stupid child.

“Oh, right. No I haven’t seen him yet, but I might.” He smiles pleasantly, strained. The world tilts dangerously and he swallows the answering bile that rises in his throat. “He’s been recording a new album,” Paul tacks on, for lack of anything else to say. A brief frown flits across Jodie’s face before she covers it up. The Eastmans aren’t big fans of John Lennon. No doubt Jodie was fishing for an update on the ever-fluctuating saga of John’n’Paul.

Paul finally spots Linda over Jodie’s shoulder, carrying a sleeping James in her arms, and he puts a friendly hand on Jodie’s arm, squeezing lightly. “It looks like James is sacked out. I think that’s our cue to call it a night.”

He studiously keeps his eyes on his feet as he walks, afraid that, if he doesn’t pay rapt attention, he’ll fall over.

“My God you’re high,” Linda says in greeting, and Paul scowls. Her face goes in and out of focus.

“Looks like someone is ready to go back to the hotel.” He gently ruffles James' silky hair.

“How about you go sit in the car. I’ll get the girls.”

Paul nods obediently, if only because he thinks he may collapse if he doesn’t sit down soon.

The driver is a quiet, austere man, and he regally opens the door for Paul, crossing an arm over his stomach and leaning forward in a slight bow as he waits for Paul to slide in. It makes Paul’s skin prickle, but he flashes the man a smile regardless.

Inside the dark quiet of the car, Paul can think a little clearer. He’s feeling vulnerably maudlin, the usual result of mixing alcohol, drugs, and thoughts of John. His stomach lurches without warning and he swallows hard, fumbling to turn up the air conditioning in the back of the car. The cool air on his face makes him feel a little better.

The driver opens the door for Linda and the rest of the family piles into the car, letting in a gust of the balmy summer air with them. He slides closer to Linda and presses his face into her neck. She smells like the nearby ocean, clean and salty — fresh.

“I love you,” he whispers, and she chuckles.

“You’re awfully clingy tonight.”

Paul only nods and closes his eyes, letting the hum of the road lull him into a comfortable trance, half awake and half asleep. The lights of the city flash against his eyelids, bright bursts of light that keep him from truly nodding off. Mary and Stella are talking quietly, and Paul smiles at the sweet sound of their small voices. Some days it seems like his family is the only thing keeping him sane — mooring him to reality as his erratic, anxious thoughts threaten to send him spiraling. It’s such an odd feeling, to be so happy and so unhappy at the same time. Sometimes, when Paul looks in the mirror, smile lines creasing the underside of his doe eyes, he catches a glimpse of himself at 28: unshaven, stinking of sweat and whiskey, the heartbreak so painfully obvious in his bloodshot eyes. Then he blinks and he’s back to reality. Still missing John.

Leaving the Beatles (leaving _John_ ) was like losing a limb in the war; it left him with a phantom pain that he carries around with him everywhere he goes. Some days the pain is sharper, other days it’s a dull throb. Ten years later and he’s still pining after John Lennon.

When they get back to the hotel, Paul collapses down on the couch in the living room while Linda bustles about getting the children in bed. Armed with Heather’s help, she disappears into the kids’ room. James is awake and fussy, but Paul can’t find it in himself to help. Guilt tugs at the back of his mind, and he wishes he could have a fucking cigarette. His brilliant decision to try and quit has been a real bitch.

He glances over at the phone like a junkie might look at a stash, hungry and wanting. John’s phone number plays in his mind; he could repeat it in his sleep. His heartbeat is suddenly thunderous in his ears, a driving drumbeat, and he hesitates half a second before picking it up and dialing John’s number with shaking fingers. The rejection from his last visit to the Dakota is still fresh in his mind.

_“You can’t just show up at my door, Paul. It’s not 1957 anymore; it’s not the same.”_

He stares out the windows at the expansive Central Park. It’s dark, and the labyrinth of street lights snakes through the blackness like a roadmap. The phone repeatedly rings in his ear. An ambulance wails in the distance. The phone keeps on ringing.

He almost hangs up after the sixth ring, but then John’s voice is crackling in his ear, slightly out of breath, and the rush of relief Paul feels is so strong that he lets out a whooshing sigh.

“John, hey, it’s Paul.” He chuckles nervously and swallows. “I’m in New York for a few days, visiting with the Eastmans.”

“Oh, hey Paul.” A pause. “You got the whole brood with you, then?”

“Yeah.” He swipes his tongue across his top lip, tasting salt. They’d left the balcony door open so the room is sticky and humid, the foul smell of the city floating in with it. He absently twirls the phone cord around his finger and swallows. “I was thinking maybe you and I could see each other. I’d love to see Sean, and you haven’t gotten to meet James yet.”

John hesitates, his breath soft and slow in Paul’s ear.

“How long are you here for?” he finally asks. “I’m booked in the studio tomorrow, but I’ve got Friday free.”

“I heard you were back in the studio. That’s great, John.” Paul’s voice is suffused with genuine happiness, and he subconsciously holds his breath, waiting for John to ask him to join in. Ringo and George were regulars on John’s albums in the early 70s, and Paul’s always held onto a thin strand of hope that John would ring him and invite him along too. So far that day hasn’t come. Sweat drips into his eye and he blinks irritatedly. “We’re not leaving until Monday, so Friday's fine for a visit.”

“Great. Uh, how about you and I grab dinner tomorrow night and then you can bring the clan over to the Dakota Friday.”

Paul’s stomach jumps at the thought of seeing John alone, but the blatant lack of an invitation to the studio hurts deep in his bones, twists his mouth into a pouty scowl, the one John’s always said makes his mouth look ugly.

“That sounds nice, John.” He works to keep his voice steady, and _fuck_ does he want a cigarette. John sighs audibly through the receiver, a short, annoyed huff of air.

“Look, Macca, I’d invite you to the studio—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Paul rushes to say, but John cuts him off.

“No, Paul, c’mon, it’s just that I’m not really — I don’t want all those fucking rumors to start up, you know? It’s bad enough when I record with George and Ringo. You know how it is.” The excuse is thin, and Paul glares right through it like it’s made of glass.

“Sure, sure.”

“I’m not doing it to slight you or anything.”

“Yeah, John, I know.” Paul wearily rubs his eyes. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

John groans exasperatedly.

“ _Christ_ , you’re such a fucking drama queen,” he snaps. “I know you’re pissed; I’m not an idiot.”

“It’s fine. I don’t care, alright? It’s fine. We don’t make music together anymore, I get it.”

“I’m so tired of your shit. You act like I do this to personally fucking wound you.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Linda walks into the room just then and arches her eyebrows. “John,” he mouths, and she nods in grave understanding, disapproval written clear on her face. Paul turns his gaze back to the window, and Linda goes into the master bedroom. Through the phone Paul hears a gulping swallow and ice clinking in a glass. “John, are you drinking?”

“I sure am, mum,” John snarls, unnecessarily nasty. Paul winces and looks up at the ornate, gold crown molding.

“I was just wonderin’. No need to be an arse about it.” Another swallow and John smacks his lips.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m just trying to enjoy my whiskey. Yoko’s such a fucking hound about booze.” It’s as close to an apology as Paul will get. 

“Where’s Yoko now?” he asks, hoping to diffuse the situation.

“In bed. Probably masturbating or something.” The phone rustles, and Paul hears the spark of a match. “She hasn’t put out in fucking _weeks_ , son,” John says around the cigarette. “My balls are aching. I think she’s tired of me.”

John’s loose lipped from the alcohol and it sends a shiver down Paul’s spine. He presses the palm of his hand against his clothed cock, grinding down a little.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice only a little shaky, but John sees right through his faux-casualness and snorts out a short, ugly laugh.

“You’re a dirty whore, Macca, thinkin’ about me bollocks and gettin’ all hot and bothered.” John tsks his tongue, but there’s no real bite behind his words. Paul smiles warmly.

“When you tug one out are you thinking about Yoko or me?” Paul teases. He expects another witty joke in reply, something flippant to keep the banter going, but when John answers, it’s dead serious.

“You.” He pauses and sighs, a silky, soft noise in Paul’s ear. “Always you.”

“I think about you too,” Paul replies honestly, still feeling wobbly from the alcohol and grass. They haven’t been honest with each other like this in months.

“I need to hit the sack, but I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Meet me at this little Jewish deli on the corner of West 83rd and Amsterdam. Green awning. You won’t be able to miss it; there’s a big bunch of flowers out front for sale.”

“West 83rd and Amsterdam,” Paul repeats, committing it to memory. “What time?”

“Ten sharp. And you better not be late, young man,” John says in his best Aunt Mimi impression. Paul chuckles, picturing John with his arms akimbo, wagging a playful finger in Paul’s face.

“See you then, Johnny. Have fun in the studio.”

“Have fun doing whatever it is you do with the bourgeoisie in the Hamptons.”

“Of course, Mr. Working Class Hero,” Paul deadpans and John snorts good-naturedly.

“G’night, Macca.”

“Night, Johnny.”

The phone clicks in Paul’s ear and he sets it back on the cradle, wiping sweat off his face.

Linda’s sitting up in bed, clad only in a bra and panties, when he finally slips through the door. A joint is smoldering in her fingers, and she offers it to Paul, but he waves it away.

“You have a nice talk with John?” she calls out as he undresses and goes into the bathroom. He pisses and shakes himself clean.

“Yeah, it was good,” he says over the rush of the sink. He brushes his teeth quickly and methodically flips all the lights off in the room.

“Are you going to see him?” The cherry of the joint burns brightly in the room, and the soft lights of the city throw sharp shadows across her face as Paul leans in for a kiss. She breathes hot smoke into his mouth and he swallows it down, chuckling.

“Yeah. We’re getting dinner tomorrow night, and then I told him I’d bring everyone over to the Dakota Friday. I’m dying for him to meet James, and I haven’t seen little Sean in years. John sent over some pictures a few months ago and he’s such a handsome kid.”

“That sounds nice, baby.” Linda leans over and grinds the joint out in the glass ashtray on the bedside table.” They both slide down under the blankets and lie there facing each other, nose to nose. Paul rests his hand on the smooth curve of Linda’s waist, fingers briefly rubbing over the stretch marks raised up like brail. Linda kisses his nose. Her breath smells like weed and minty toothpaste.

“I’m a little nervous,” he says honestly. “We haven’t seen each other in so long.”

“You’ve been getting along though.” Linda massages his hipbone with her thumb. Paul sighs and closes his eyes.

“I guess so. He’s just so temperamental, you know? One day he’s all excited, goin’ on about Sean and baking bread and whatever else he does. Then I’ll call him up again and he’ll snap at me and shit all over my music. I never know which John I’m going to get.” Linda makes a small comforting sound and leans over to kiss him properly, running her tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. He slips a hand down into her panties and feels her, slick and warm around his fingers. He knows he’s too wasted to keep an erection, so he does the gentlemanly thing and gets her off, reveling in the way she shivers below him.

He can’t help but think about John.

\---

They have a nice day at the Eastmans’, taking the short ride out to the beach so all the children can play. Heather prefers to lounge in a beach chair with her nose buried in a thick mystery novel. She misses her boyfriend and has been sulking the entire trip. 

The water’s a little chilly, but Paul splashes around with Mary and Stella regardless, carries James out and squats down so the boy can feels the water lapping against his waist. He giggles and buries his face in Paul’s chest, and Paul feels a wave of affection for his son, already so sweet and sensitive.

Now he’s standing in front of the full-length mirror in the master bedroom of their suite, messing with his hair, still thick but tinged with gray, so it falls across his forehead _just so._ He scoots closer to the mirror, his breath fogging up the glass, and scrutinizes his face, hating the small signs of aging marring his otherwise smooth skin: the creases under his eyes, the beginnings of lines criss-crossing his forehead, the early signs of jowls.

“You look fine, Paul.”

He jumps when Linda walks up behind him and winds her arms around his waist. “Your eyes look gorgeous in this color.” She tugs on the sleeve of his navy button down. “Now go have fun on your date.”

She’s just teasing him, but Paul can’t help but feel guilty. In a way it _is_ a date. A betrayal. He laughs to cover up his discomfort and turns around in her arms, giving her a chaste, close-mouthed kiss.

“I’ll see you later.” He squeezes her in a hug. “I love you.”

The car’s already outside the hotel when he gets downstairs. He slides in, smiling vaguely at the driver, and settles back in the soft leather seat, nervously drumming his fingers on his thigh. He’ll be early, almost 15 minutes, but he’s planned it that way — he wants to assert his dominance over the situation, mark it as his territory and not John’s.

He exits the car and stands outside the deli. The green awning is flapping gently in the breeze, and a white sign is tacked up advertising a dozen roses for seven dollars. He walks over to the rows of colorful flowers and studies them, leaning forward to smell them, a drastic contrast to the putrid city teeming around him. He’s always thought the entirety of New York City smells like stale piss.

A perfectly shaped pink rose catches his eye as he turns to go inside, and he carefully pulls it out of the plastic pot, untangling it from the rest of the roses. He sucks his bottom lip in over his teeth and nervously gnaws on it as he holds the flower up to his nose. One of the employees steps out, a teenager with pimply skin, and starts sweeping the stoop, his green apron perfectly matching the awning above him.

“That’s fifty-eight cents if you wanna buy it,” he says in a thick New York accent. He has a colorful, knit yarmulke on the crown of his head, and Paul briefly admires the starburst design.

“Right, thanks,” he says, already pulling his wallet out of his back pocket as he walks inside. Packs of cigarettes line the wall behind the cashier’s head, and Paul spies the familiar box of powder blue Gauloises Bleues John was always smoking, never able to decide which he liked better: Galouises or Gitanes. Paul hesitates half a second before clearing his throat and pointing to the Galouises. “I’ll take a pack of those too, and, um…” He bends down to the boxes of gum and candy and grabs a pack of Doublemint. He sets it on the counter and smiles. “This too please.”

The cashier nods and rings the items up, carefully typing the prices on his cash register, the keys clacking. He has on a velvet, navy yarmulke, and the color nearly blends in with his short black hair.

“Two dollars, five cents.”

While Paul fishes the cash out of his wallet, the cashier gestures to the rose and smiles. “Meeting someone special?”

“Just an old friend,” Paul says as he hands over two crisp one-dollar bills, still fresh from the currency exchange, and a shiny nickel.

“Ah, I see.” The cashier winks, and Paul flushes in response, sticking the stem in his back pocket.

The night air is sticky when he steps back outside, pulling the lighter he always keeps with him out of his pocket and lighting up one of the cigarettes. The first lungful of smoke is delicious and Paul savors it, tipping his head back and letting the smoke lazily roll out his nose and mouth.

“I thought you quit smoking, Macca.”

Paul grins as John strolls up, a twin cigarette dangling out the side of his mouth.

“I never said I’d _quit_ , only that I’ve been _trying_ to quit.” Paul flicks the ashes away before taking another drag. Then, remembering the rose, he reaches behind him and rolls the stem between his thumb and forefinger, laughing nervously and holding it close to his chest. “I, uh, here. It made me think of you.” Paul shoves his arm out and stares at the sky, the towering skyscrapers, the passing traffic — anywhere but at John.

“You’re soft, you know that?” John jokes, though he sounds flattered, and their fingers brush when he takes the flower. Paul sighs in relief and pretends not to look too interested as John smells it and rubs one of the silky petals between his fingers. “It’s nice, though. Thanks.”

Paul shrugs and tosses his cigarette to the ground, scrubbing it out with his toe.

“You wanna go in?”

“Sure. You look good for an old man, by the way,” John teases as he ducks into the deli. Paul watches him from behind, drinking in his long legs and loose hips. He’s thinner than Paul’s ever seen him, all sharp angles and protruding bones, but still beautiful. They stand side by side in front of the display case, and Paul briefly wrinkles his nose at the hunks of meats shining in their plastic wrappers, nestled amongst blocks of cheeses. John catches him staring and winces. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t think about the whole vegetarian thing.” Paul shrugs and studies the menu.

“S’alright. I’ll get some soup or something.”

“Well do you mind if I…” John trails off and motions to the meats, a hint of anxiety in his voice.

“Go ahead. It’s fine.”

The man behind the counter — presumably the cook — looks at them expectantly.

“You want the meat?” he asks, and John leans forward to squint at the menu from behind his glasses.

“Yeah, I’ll have the Reuben.”

“You want a drink?” The man scribbles the order on a well-worn pad of paper, glancing up briefly at John.

“Sure I’ll take a Coke.” John gestures to the coolers full of colorful sodas along the back walls.

“And you?” The man looks at Paul.

“I’ll take the vegetable soup with a matzo ball, please. And a cup of water.”

“Four-fifty.” The cook tears the piece of paper off and sets it next to the grill. Paul starts reaching for his wallet, but John waves his hand and leafs through the bills in his money clip.

“I’ve got it.”

“Ta, mate.”

John gets his Coke and they go to the little seating area in the back of the store, picking a rickety, metal table tucked away in the corner. A small candle is flickering weakly in the center, the wick burned down to a stub, and John glances at it with an ironic look on his face.

“How romantic.” He lays the rose on the table to punctuate his point, and Paul blushes.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to — you don’t have to keep it. It was stupid.”

John rolls his eyes and lights up a cigarette.

“Piss off, Paul. I’m only teasing you. It’s sweet.” He crosses his ankle over his knee and breathes out a cloud of smoke. He looks good — older and thinner — but good nonetheless. His collarbone juts out sharply under the collar of his open-necked, plaid shirt, and his angular jaw is dusted with the beginnings of a scruffy, graying beard. Paul imagines running his tongue along the hard bones, tasting John’s skin. “Like what you see?” John interrupts Paul’s thoughts.

“Always have, always will.” Paul winks, and John laughs, shaking his head.

“You’re a monster, Macca.” He taps his cigarette against the plastic ashtray.

The boy from out front brings their food, carefully balancing the plates in his hands. When he sets their food down, he notices the rose on the table and raises his eyebrows at Paul, part curiosity, part discomfort.

“Thanks mate.” Paul ignores him and instead focuses on laying his napkin over his lap. As the boy walks away, John starts attempting to eat his monstrous sandwich, growling in annoyance when a string of sauerkraut slides out and lands on the table. Paul smirks. “How’s your macrobiotic Reuben sandwich?” John glares at him over the sandwich, which he’s squeezing hard enough to leave indents in the rye bread.

“I’m so fuckin’ tired of Yoko’s damn diet. Sometimes I feel like a bleedin’ animal eating leaves off the ground.”

Russian dressing oozes out of the sandwich and drips onto his fingers, and he sets it down with a disgruntled huff. He removes the bread and starts picking off the slices of corned beef and eating them with his fingers. Paul shakes his head in amusement and blows on a spoonful of soup to cool it off.

“How’s Sean?”

John’s eyes immediately light up, and it makes warmth blossom in Paul’s stomach. He’s always loved an enthusiastic John. His face splits into a particular smile that makes him look impossibly young, reminding Paul of _his_ John — the John lying on a ruffled duvet in a dingy Parisian hotel, looking at Paul like he was the center of the universe.

“Sean’s perfect,” John says proudly. “He’s so fuckin’ smart and curious. I play little word games with him a lot.” He pops another piece of corned beef into his mouth and continues with his mouth full. “I can’t wait for him to get even older, though. It was kinda a drag when he was a baby because all he did was eat, cry, and shit, but now he’s like a tiny person ready to learn and experience things.”

“That’s great. I bet he and James will get along well. Lennon-McCartney Part Deux.” Paul playfully waggles his eyebrows, but John only smirks.

“Mm, I don’t know about that. Sean may be a bit too smart for baby James. Lennons always have been sharper than McCartneys, you know.” He grins to take the heat out of his words, and Paul lets the barb slide.

He feels like they’re in a protective little bubble sitting in this hole-in-the-wall deli, the candle casting shadows on their faces as they press their knees together under the table. Paul cuts off a piece of the matzo ball with his spoon and scoops it up. John watches him with his head cocked, an unreadable expression on his face.

“How was the studio today?” Paul asks, realizing he’s been quiet for too long. John scowls and turns to watch a couple sitting a few tables away. They’re speaking some other language full of guttural clicks and growls, ugly but charming in its own way.

“It was fine,” he finally says. Then, frustrated: “I don’t know; why do you always have to talk about fucking music? Don’t you ever take a break? Always have been so bleedin' compulsive. You should really get that checked out by a psychiatrist, _mate_.” In an instant, John’s body language shifts into something hostile and standoffish, and Paul fights the impulse to get defensive. He can feel the bubble bursting.

“I don’t know. I was just wondering, you know? We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I just thought you’d be excited about it.”

“Well not everyone’s like you, Paul.” John angrily pulls a cigarette out of his crumpled pack and shoves it into his mouth, sucking in hard as he lights it. “We can’t all be perfect little overachievers,” he says on the exhale.

Paul irritatedly waves the smoke away and focuses on eating his soup, noticing that John’s sandwich has long been forgotten. It sits in a heap on his plate, and the sight of all the meat makes Paul nauseous. He drops his spoon into the bowl with a clatter and brushes his hands off on his pants, suddenly pissed at John for ruining the tenuous truce they’d established. Paul’s never understood John’s need to pick fights — the internal drive to push people away.

“Look, if I’ve made you mad or something, then I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to imply anything—”

“You never are,” John sneers. “Not sweet Beatle Paul with his 25 children and thousands of hit records. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, unless your name is John, George, or Ringo, then it’s all fair game.”

Anger flares in Paul’s chest, and he leans forward, stabbing his finger in John’s direction.

“Fuck you. You’re just jealous. It’s not my fault you’ve been sitting on your ass for the past five years playing house.”

When the other couple sneaks a quick glance over at them, Paul realizes they’ve been yelling.

Instead of responding, John drops his elbows onto the table and thrusts his head into his hands. He frustratedly drags his fingers through his hair, mussing the curls he’d carefully swooped up off his forehead.

“I know,” he moans. “God _fuck_ , Paul. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Yoko and I are on the rocks again, like we always fucking are, and I just —” he lets out a frustrated sound and angrily ruffles his hair. “I’m lonely.” He pauses to take an aggressive drag on his cigarette. “Plus, I think Yoko’s having an affair.” Paul winces.

“I’m sorry,” he says uselessly. It sounds hollow in his own ears, an empty platitude. “I don’t know what to tell you, Johnny.”

John makes a wet clicking sound in his throat when Paul uses the endearment.

They sit there like that for a while, John discreetly sniffling while Paul absently swirls his soup, staring at a spot past John’s head. This late, the deli is completely empty, the other couple having moved on. He can hear short bursts of songs as the employees fiddle with the portable radio up front, never settling on a channel. They’re speaking quietly amongst themselves, occasionally laughing.

After a few more minutes of silence, Paul hesitantly reaches out and touches John’s arm. “Johnny, look at me please,” he whispers. John blearily raises his head, and Paul glances around before he gently pries John’s hands out of his hair. “I’m sorry you’re lonely. You know all you have to do is call me, right? I’ll always make time for you.”

“That’s not fucking true and you know it.” John pulls away and hugs himself like he’s trying to stem the bleeding. “You’re always off halfway around the world playing your shite music or pretending to be Farmer Brown in Scotland. Since when have you had the time for me? I haven’t seen you in four bloody years!” Paul bristles and narrows his eyes. John’s ability to be the world’s biggest hypocrite never ceases to amaze him.

“Okay, fine, but since when have you had the time for _me_?” He lowers his voice and adds a nasally edge to it, doing his best impression of John. “Stop coming around, Paul. It’s not 1957 anymore, Paul. _Fuck you_ , Paul.” He abruptly pushes his chair back and stands up, accidentally checking the table with his hip and sloshing the soup out of its bowl. It spills across the crooked table and soaks the rose before John can move it. How poetic.

“Paul, what’re you doing? Sit down,” John says wearily, annoyed, but Paul shakes his head tersely.

“No. I’m leaving.” He turns on his heel and strides out of the deli.

The night air is heavy with humidity and the smell of incoming rain, and he starts walking across the street, lungs burning as he sucks in sharp, short breaths. The colors and sounds of the city flash by him as he walks. The sound of angry car horns makes anxiety burn in his stomach. A bum jingling a plastic cup of coins croaks, pleading for some money, but Paul sidesteps him in his rage, telling him in no uncertain terms to fuck off.

“Paul! Jesus, slow down!” John’s shoes slap the pavement as he runs up to Paul and angrily grabs his shoulder, spinning him around. Paul stumbles and jerks his arm away like he’s been burned.

“Don’t touch me,” he snaps. John’s eyes widen and he nervously looks around.

“Please lower your fuckin’ voice,” he hisses.

Paul crosses his arms over his chest and stares John down. They’re like two adversaries in a Mexican standoff. The only thing missing is a couple of pistols.

“Are you ever going to stop hating me?”

“I don’t hate you Paul. I’ve never hated you.”

“Oh really?” Paul sputters. “ _So Sgt. Pepper took you by surpri—_ “

“Don’t sing my fucking — Christ! That was _nine years ago_ ; get over it already!”

“I’m going back to my hotel. I need a cab.” Paul pulls his cigarettes out and shakily lights one. A boisterous group pours out of a nearby restaurant, and Paul winces at the sound of their loud, slurred voices. They start stumbling down the sidewalk, shouting over each other as they plan the rest of their night. Paul rolls his eyes and angles himself away from the street, glaring at the neon sign flickering in the window of an all-night 7-Eleven.

“Oh my God, are you John Lennon?” One of the girls comes to an abrupt halt, teetering on her high heels.

“No,” John snaps, and Paul can’t help but snort.

“You look just like him.” She leans forward and squints. John continues to shake his head.

“No I don’t. My eyes are lighter.” Then, running a finger down his nose, “and my nose.”

“I still think you look like him!” the girl calls back as she jogs — unsteadily in her heels — to catch up with her friends. Paul throws his head back and laughs.

“A Hard Day’s Night.”

“You’re a swine,” John intones.

“God that was so long ago.” Paul tosses his half-finished cigarette to the ground. “What happened to us? We were on top of the world, man. I’ve never been happier.”

“We grew up; that’s what happened.” John kicks at the ground with his toe. “Are you still goin’ back to your hotel?”

“I don’t know.” Paul pauses. “We could go to a bar or somethin’, have some drinks.”

“I know a couple low-key places.”

And just like that, they sweep everything under the rug. Out of sight, out of mind. Paul figures they’ll let this episode fester for the next few months, then John will call him up one night and bitch at him until Paul yells and slams down the phone. It’s a familiar game they play.

It’s only when John walks to the curb and starts waving down a taxi that Paul notices he’s still got the rose, wet and limp, clutched in his hand. Paul walks up beside him and bumps his shoulder.

“You don’t have to keep the rose, you know. It’s ruined anyway, probably smells like carrots and matzo.”

“Maybe I wanna keep it.” John quirks an eyebrow as a yellow cab rolls up.

They slide into the back of the cab and John rattles off an address that Paul doesn’t pay much attention to. If the cabbie recognizes them, he’s polite enough not to mention it. Paul studies John’s profile as the city flashes by outside the window, drinking him in.

As soon as they tumble out of the cab, Paul hears the thumping music coming from the club. Beefy bouncers with skin-tight t-shirts and tattooed arms flank the door, glowering. It’s one of those hole-in-the-wall bars they used to love to sneak off to: dirty brick exterior, paint-chipped doors, questionable looking clientele. A gaggle of scantily clad boys walks up to the door, young and rowdy in a way that makes Paul feel depressingly old. He should’ve known John would bring him to a gay bar.

“Really John?”

“Don’t be a pussy. We’ve been to gay bars before.”

Paul glances over at the door and one of the boys waves and blows him a kiss before skipping inside. With an irritated growl, Paul grabs John’s arm and drags him into the shadows of the building next door. A rat scuttles away, and Paul shudders.

“We can’t go in there,” he hisses. “Someone might see us. The paparazzi here in New York are ruthless. Plus, this place looks seriously sketchy.” John pulls his arm away and straightens his shirt with a huff.

“The paparazzi aren’t going to come after us. They don’t give a fuck about two washed-up, middle-aged 60's musicians. Trust me.”

“Oi, watch who you’re calling washed up, son!”

“Alright, fine,” John says with exaggerated patience. “The paparazzi don’t give a fuck about one washed-up 60's musician and one boy wonder who refuses to grow up.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because I’m so enigmatic and charming.” John rapidly flutters his eyelashes and pulls one of his goofy, closed-mouth smiles. Then, lowering his voice and brushing Paul’s damp bangs back, “it’ll be fine, alright? We’ll have fun if you relax, babe.” Paul raises his eyebrows at the pet name.

“Babe?”

“I’m trying to woo you, aren’t I?” John calls over his shoulder as he saunters toward the bar. Paul curses under his breath and hurries after him.

Once inside, John grabs his hand and tugs him farther into the bar, turning sideways to slide past the people lining the narrow hallway. Everything is bathed in jarring, bright red lights, and Paul blinks dizzily.

“Can’t we go somewhere else?” he grumbles as they squeeze their way up to the bar. John shoves his elbow onto the wet bar top and waves at the bartender — a muscular 20-something in a tight tank top — in an attempt to get his attention. John twists to look at Paul.

“No. Loosen up. This is supposed to be _fun_.”

John orders two rum and cokes, and they elbow their way through the crowd to stand in the back corner, inconspicuous and unobtrusive.

John smirks at Paul over the rim of his glass. “See? This isn’t so bad, is it?” he asks, raising his voice over the music — some electronic song with aggressive, chest-pounding bass.

“It’s alright,” Paul admits, though his skin is still prickling with discomfort. He’s never liked going to gay bars. Even in Paris, when they didn’t have to worry about nuisances like the press and fans, Paul was always uncomfortable and embarrassed. He squeezes his lime into his drink and muddles it at the bottom with the thin plastic straw.

John looks to see if anyone is watching them — a habit honed from years of sneaking around —and hesitantly reaches out to curl his hand around Paul’s hip, pulling them closer together.

“Is this okay?” he asks — almost shyly — in Paul’s ear. Paul shivers and nods. He notices that John has the rose threaded under his belt, the stem resting against his thigh. A few of the petals have fallen off and it’s drooping dangerously, the top of the stem starting to fray.

The song changes to Blondie’s Call Me, and Paul finds himself nodding along to the song.

“Heather loves this song.” Paul leans into John, resting his head in the crook of his neck. “She’s always playing it on the stereo we got her last Christmas.”

“It’s alright.” John finishes his drink and sets the glass on the ledge running along the wall. He wraps his arm around Paul’s waist and buries his nose in Paul’s hair.

“You’re just a cynic.” The chorus comes back on and Paul starts to sing: “ _Call me (call me) on the line, Call me, call me any, anytime_ —”

“Oh Gawd,” John groans exaggeratedly. “Looks like Heather’s not the only fan.”

“It’s a good song.” Paul shrugs. “Catchy.”

“I should go up to the DJ and request Coming Up. I bet the crowd would love that, huh?”

“Shurrup.” Paul elbows John in the side. “I know you’ve listened to it.”

“Yeah maybe,” John says coyly, and Paul gazes up at him. This close, he can see all the little marks and imperfections on John’s skin: a few red bumps on the side of his neck, a dry patch on his chin, a few longer hairs he missed on his cheek when shaving. Paul angles his head to kiss John’s jaw, and John turns, drawing him into a proper kiss.

He tastes like ashes and Coke, and Paul can’t help but smile against his lips, chuckling.

“I’ve missed you, Johnny.”

John hums in response and draws him into another kiss. This time it’s tinged with desperation, like John’s afraid Paul may disappear at any moment. Their teeth glance off each other and their lips slide out of place, John’s mouth landing wetly on Paul’s chin. His stubbled beard is like sandpaper against Paul’s smooth skin.

“God, I want you so fucking bad,” he growls before biting Paul’s bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth. His hands move down to cup Paul’s ass, and Paul jumps, startled. He manages to blindly reach behind him to set his glass on the ledge before it spills.

John groans and clumsily backs Paul into the wall; his head knocks against the wood with a thunk and the ledge digs sharply into his back. He tastes blood on his lip after John kisses him again, all gnashing teeth and rough tongue.

“John, stop,” he manages to gasp, pushing John’s chest away to halt his movements. They’re both panting, chests heaving, and Paul has to take a moment to reorient himself. Even though he’s only had one drink, he feels drunk off the feeling of John’s body against his own. John fists his hands in Paul’s shirt tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

“Hey, look at me. Slow down. I’m not going anywhere, love.” Paul soothingly rubs his hands over John’s chest, but John’s eyes are glittering dangerously, his pupils blown wide.

“I want you to fuck me,” he repeats firmly. “I need you inside me.” He moves Paul’s hand to the front of his jeans where his erection pokes Paul’s palm. Paul takes a shaky breath. His prick is already half hard, pressing against his zipper.

“Where’re we gonna go?”

“I booked a hotel.” John squares his shoulders and stares at Paul down his aquiline nose, daring him to refuse the offer.

“Ah, so you just _assumed_ I’d be going home with you tonight?”

“Since when have you ever been able to resist me?”

“Touché.” Paul pecks John’s lips before he starts weaving his way through the crowd.

“Paul!” John calls after him. “Where’re you going?”

Paul turns and raises a single eyebrow, cocking his head to the side with a coquettish grin.

“You’re the one who booked the room; you tell me.”

\---

The hotel is low-key and unassuming, exactly the kind of hotel you go to for a quick fuck. John checks in under the name John Stanley, his mother’s maiden name, and the woman at the desk nods, unfazed by their obviously aroused, disheveled state. Paul can’t tell if she doesn’t recognize them or if she’s being professional. John pays for the room in cash, and she doesn’t bat an eye. It’s obvious she’s completed this kind of transaction before.

John lets them into the room, humming a song Paul doesn’t recognize, and flips on the light. It’s a generic hotel room — beige walls, beige bedspread, floral carpet, boring abstract paintings. It’s comforting in its anonymity.

John disappears into the bathroom to freshen up, and Paul goes over to the windows, gazing out at the skyline, before pulling the curtains firmly closed.

He feels suddenly nervous as he takes his shoes and socks off, neatly lining them up against the wall to give himself something to do. His mouth tastes sour from the rum and Coke, so he opens his pack of Doublemint and chews a piece.

He hears the bathroom door open and anxiety burns icy hot in his stomach.

“Bathroom’s open,” John says as he flops down on the bed, the mattress springs squeaking in protest. He’s naked aside from his boxers, his lithe body stretched out, arms bent behind his head.

“Ta.” Paul slips into the bathroom and locks the door. He splashes his face with cold water and stares at himself in the mirror. His face is pale, edging on haggard. Sex with John has always felt like playing with fire — like he’s teetering on the edge of a precipice. He sits heavily on the toilet lid and cradles his head in his hands, taking a few slow, measured breaths. He’s had anxiety attacks before, and he’s not about to have one now.

When Paul finally exits the bathroom, he finds John lazily smoking a cigarette and flipping through yesterday morning’s New York Times. It’s a cozy, domestic scene, and Paul wishes he could take a picture. This is the John he loves — the softer, gentler John who lets his guard down. The John who doesn’t feel the need to hurt the people he loves.

“Whatcha reading?” Paul lights up a cigarette and climbs on the bed. John glances up briefly, twitching his face to push his glasses back up his nose.

“A wife of one of the Iran hostages got her first letter from him in four months. Apparently it was quote ‘upbeat.’” John uses air quotes and rolls his eyes. “It’s all bullshit propaganda if you ask me.”

Paul leans over John to ash his cigarette and notices the alarm clock. It’s almost one in the morning. He feels a jolt of guilt.

“Fuck, Linda,” he groans

“Just call her,” John says without lifting his head. “Tell her you’re staying at my place later than planned.”

Paul quickly dials the hotel’s number he’d memorized, anxiously twisting the cord around his finger. John starts to absently rub his back, only pausing to flip a page.

Linda doesn’t sound angry on the phone — she sounds resigned, like she knew this would happen. Paul almost tells her never mind, that he’ll be home soon, but then he notices that John’s put the rose in a glass of water on the bedside table, and his chest aches with emotions so strong he can’t even put them into words. He tells Linda he loves her, but it lacks his usual conviction.

He hangs up and sits back against the pillows. “Alright, sorry.” John shrugs and pulls at the hem of Paul’s shirt.

“Take this shit off and I’ll forgive you.”

“I dunno, it’s a little chilly in here. I might keep it on,” Paul teases, lowering his head to look up at John through his eyelashes. John rolls his eyes, sets the newspaper to the side, and starts unbuttoning Paul’s shirt in a businesslike manner.

“Don’t be coy.” He pushes Paul’s shirt off, and Paul flushes, feeling a twinge of self consciousness. He knows he’s not quite as lean as he used to be. His stomach is a little softer, his jaw not as defined.

“I, uh, Linda feeds me too well,” he jokes awkwardly. John shakes his head and trails his hand from Paul’s chest to navel, dragging his thumb over a hardened nipple as he goes.

“You’re beautiful, Paul.” Then, struggling to pop the button on Paul’s jeans with his left hand, “now take these bloody things off. Underwear too.”

Paul does as he’s told, tossing his shirt off the side of the bed and shimmying out of his jeans and boxers. John’s breath hitches. “You’re already hard,” he whispers as he reverently traces the length of Paul’s shaft with his finger. They both watch Paul’s cock flex against his stomach.

John nudges Paul to move to the center of the bed and kneels between his legs. Paul shudders when he realizes what John’s going to do, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“Johnny, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” John says as he leans forward, his breath hot against the tip of Paul’s leaking cock. He runs his tongue up the side once, flicking teasingly at the slit, and swallows Paul down, his nose coming to rest against Paul’s dark pubic hair.

Paul lets out a funny little sigh and sinks back into the mattress, his muscles slackening. He gently threads his fingers through John’s hair, combing through the thick curls. John bobs his head with perfect, practiced movements, and Paul squirms, his toes curling hard enough to cramp.

“Baby,” he says hoarsely. “Just like that.” John hums contently and pulls off, replacing his mouth with his hand and licking one of Paul’s balls into his mouth. Paul spaces out for a moment, leg jolting forward, a sharp heel digging into John’s hip.

“Easy, love,” John chuckles, gently rubbing up and down Paul’s thigh. Paul can only groan, staring down the length of his body to meet John’s eyes. They share a tender look, one that’s weighted with meaning and full of promises they can’t possibly keep, before John dips back down and swirls his tongue around the head of Paul’s cock, lapping up precum.

Paul’s cock is heavy and aching, and he knows he won’t last much longer. Heat coils white hot in his gut as John messily mouths along his shaft, further soaking Paul’s sweaty pubic hair with saliva. He’s dangerously close already, can feel the telltale pressure building in his groin.

“John,” he warns, gently tugging on his hair. John sits back on his haunches and pouts.

“Done already? You really are getting old, son. I used to be able to do that for hours.” John grins and climbs up Paul’s body to kiss him, slow and sensual, so that Paul can taste himself. Paul breaks out of the kiss and grabs John’s cock through his boxers. John’s hips involuntarily buck forward.

“Lie down, baby,” Paul murmurs. John nods and quickly removes his boxers, tossing them unceremoniously on the floor.

They shuffle around, giggling as they struggle to crawl around on the soft, sinking mattress, until John is on his back. Paul lays himself across John’s body, shifting his weight so John’s sharp hipbones don’t dig into his waist. “You’re so skinny.” Paul trails his fingers over the ridges of John’s ribs, and John sits up on his elbows, glowering.

“Are you gonna lecture me or are you gonna fuck me?”

“Do you have lube?”

“Duh. I put it in the bedside drawer.”

Paul leans over, nearly toppling forward until John grabs him around the waist, and manages to wrench the drawer open. He gropes around, pushing the Gideon's Bible out of the way, and leans back with the tube of lube clutched victoriously in his hand.

“Ah ha!” he exclaims, and John helps him get back in place, a fond smile on his face.

“Alright, lets get this show on the road, pardner,” John says in an exaggerated Texas accent. Paul gives John’s cock a light squeeze.

“Hold your horses, Tex.” Paul starts struggling to open the lube in his sweat-slick, shaking hands, and John sits up to take it from him.

“Here.” John pops the top open and squirts some in the palm of Paul’s hand. “Don’t be nervous. It’s only me, baby.” Paul nods and wordlessly sits back. John lifts his legs to spread himself further and the breath catches in Paul’s throat.

Paul opens John up as efficiently as he can without hurting him. The whole time, he gently rubs John’s lower stomach, hoping to relax him.

Like with anything he does, Paul takes sex seriously, approaching it with concentration and perfectionism. He doesn’t do half-ass sex, and he _definitely_ doesn’t do bad sex. Just as he honed his musical skills in Hamburg, the lovely barmaids helped him learn a thing or two in bed. He has put those lessons to good use.

John is writhing on the bed, twisting the sheets in his hands and muttering obscenities in between low groans. When Paul crooks his finger and prods at John’s prostate, he nearly flies off the bed, and Paul smiles.

He takes a few seconds to breathe as he coats himself in lube and lines himself up. He feels dizzy and disoriented — like he did in the bar — and the image of a fire-eater flashes in his mind; if he isn’t careful, he’ll get burned.

When Paul finally pushes in, John moans so loudly that Paul feels it reverberate in the air. His balls come to nestle tightly against John’s ass, and Paul waits there for a second, letting them both adjust.

“You good?” he asks as he starts soothingly stroking John’s stomach again; his body is as taught as a guitar string.

“Yeah,” John breathes. His eyes are hooded, his pink mouth slack and shiny with spit. “Now, how about you start actually fucking me?”

“So impatient,” Paul tuts even as he starts to thrust, long fluid motions that are impeccably timed. John hooks his ankles at the small of Paul’s back and pulls him in impossibly deeper; they both groan at the sensation.

“Touch me — _touch me_ ,” John begs hoarsely, and Paul obliges, pumping John’s cock in a counter rhythm to his thrusts.

“Fuck, Johnny,” Paul gasps. His wedding ring is a golden blur as he strokes John off, and he briefly wishes he’d taken it off.

“I love you,” John groans before he suddenly goes rigid and spills over Paul’s hand, hot and sticky, with a strangled shout. Paul speeds up his pace as John’s body relaxes.

He feels the pressure building almost painfully in his stomach and he pulls out just in time to come across John’s stomach. John sits up on his elbows and watches as Paul shoots off, cock spurting five times before it’s finally over. He falls forward, smearing himself with cum as he lays half on top of John. Their chests heave together. John drops a sweet kiss on the top of Paul’s head.

“I love you too,” Paul finally manages to say, and John snorts, wrapping one arm possessively around Paul’s shoulders.

“Good to know.” He doodles little shapes on Paul’s back with his finger, and they both take a few minutes to breathe, simpatico. Paul finally manages to roll off John and settles beside him, snuggling into his side.

“Light me a ciggie?”

“I’ve got something even better, son.” John bounds off the bed and goes over to root around in his jeans pocket. He stands up holding a baggie of weed over his head, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“You know the way straight to my heart,” Paul croons. John laughs in response and crouches over the bedside table as he starts rolling a joint with quick, practiced movements. He seals it with a seasoned swipe of his tongue and passes it to Paul.

“Would you do the honor, sir?” he asks in a posh voice, mock bowing.

“Of course, my good man. I would be happy to.” They both chuckle as Paul lights up the joint, sucking in and letting the hot smoke bloom in his lungs. He exhales slowly, the smoke streaming out of his nose and floating lazily in the air. The heady smell of marijuana soon fills the room, and Paul lies back, melting into the bed.

They trade the joint back and forth until it’s dead and John crushes it out in the ashtray. He settles beside Paul, and Paul reaches over to finger the small, diamond necklace resting in the hollow of his throat. “This is pretty,” he murmurs, rubbing the stone between his fingers.

“Yoko got it for me a while ago. I’ve gotten used to wearing it.”

Paul blinks back a ridiculous wave of tears and gnaws on his bottom lip, reopening the sore John left earlier. He swallows the metallic taste of blood and tries to focus on the high. It’s a head high, the kind that makes everything swirl and bend out of shape.

“You’re also wearing your wedding ring.” Paul traces a circle around it on John’s finger. “You never used to wear it.” John frowns, shifting uncomfortably.

“I guess it helps me keep up the illusion that my marriage isn’t going to shit — for myself and the public.”

“You said earlier that Yoko was having an affair. What’re you gonna do?” Paul stares up at the ceiling, notices a small spiderweb of cracks in the otherwise smooth surface.

“Nothin’ I can do. I suppose it’s only fair.” John starts combing his fingers through Paul’s hair. “If I can cheat, why can’t she?”

“That’s not how a healthy marriage is supposed to work, you know? You’re supposed to be a team. You went back to her and apologized and have been a good dad to Sean. She should be putting in the same level of effort. It’s _not_ fair.” Paul turns his head to look into John’s eyes, droopy and red from the weed. He looks unsure, thick eyebrows furrowing.

“It’s all such a mess.”

“Do you still love her?” Paul props himself up on his elbow, resting his head in his palm. “Because if you do, then it’s worth sticking around to fix it.” Paul feels like it’s 1974 all over again. John sighs and runs his fingers through his hair.

“I do love her,” he says slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully, “but I don’t know if it’s… if it’s what I want — my life with Yoko. It makes me sad. Sometimes I feel like I’m a fucking prisoner up there in that awful white apartment. All I do is sit around and watch telly. And sure, Sean is great, but sometimes I get so _angry_. I’m not cut out to be a dad. I’m always making him cry, and he can be so frustrating, always bothering me when I just want to be alone, you know?”

Paul sighs and walks his fingers over John’s ribs like a staircase, biding his time, because Paul _doesn’t_ know. He loves spending time with his children, would rather have them with him all the time, especially James. His children need him and all Paul’s ever wanted is to be needed by someone else.

“It gets easier,” is all he says, because he doesn’t know how to fix this. He spent so much of his life following John around and dutifully cleaning up his messes, but they’re grown men now and Paul has other responsibilities. John sighs softly and grabs Paul’s hand, bringing it up to his lips for a kiss.

“I wish we could stay right here forever,” John whispers brokenly, his breath wet against Paul’s knuckles.

“I know, love.”

“Will you stay with me tonight?” John’s voice cracks. “Please.”

“Johnny… I promised Linda I’d be home.” A tear races its way down John’s cheek, and Paul reaches up to thumb it away. “Don’t cry, love. We’ll see each other tomorrow, right? It’ll be okay.”

“It’s late, Paul. Linda won’t even know if you come back. Please stay.” John hiccups as more tears start to fall, faster than Paul can wipe them away.

He thinks about Linda in their hotel room — soft and uncomplicated — then looks at John’s tear-stained face, and knows his fate is preordained. No matter how badly it hurts, he’ll always choose John.

“Okay, but I’ll have to get up early and leave." Paul leans over John to fiddle around with the alarm clock, setting it for six. He sits back to stare into John’s eyes, glassy with weed and tears. “You’re gonna be the death of me one day, Lennon.”

“You haven’t croaked yet, so I’d say we’ve got a pretty good track record. Now, shove over. Half me arse is hanging off the bed.” Paul rolls his eyes good-naturedly and scoots over, rolling onto his side to face the wall. John flips the lamp off and plunges the room into darkness.

John wraps his arms around Paul’s waist and kisses the shell of his ear. “Please don’t ever leave me,” he whispers.

“I never have and I never will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope y'all enjoyed this! I've been into late post-Beatles recently and wanted to do a fic on it. Lots of people speculate they met again after 1976, so I decided to explore that :-)
> 
> If you hated it then that's totally cool, but I hope everyone liked it!
> 
> Idk how many more chapters it'll have, but at least one or two more lmao.
> 
> Comments are very much appreciated!


	2. Grow Old With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Grow old along with me  
>  Two branches of one tree  
> Face the setting sun  
> When the day is done  
> God bless our love  
> God bless our love_
> 
> -Grow Old With Me, John Lennon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi here's the next chapter! I rewrote the beginning at least six times b/c I wasn't happy with it, so I hope it's ok. The original version was very angsty lmao.
> 
> The story will be making a canon divergence from here on out (John and Paul will be reestablishing regular communication). I will, however, still be adding the major character death warning eventually. That's still a little ways away though, so don't worry!
> 
> Anyway, enjoy y'all!

** Paul. **

“Christ turn that bleedin’ thing off!” 

“You’re closer; you turn it off!”

“You’re the reason we’re up this early!”

“Fine, you git. I’ll do it; like I do everything!” Paul leans over John, not-so-accidentally elbowing him in the side, and smashes the top of the blaring alarm clock. He collapses back on the bed and breathes a sigh of relief, reveling in the relative quiet in the room, broken only by the wail of sirens and agitated car horns.

“You fuckin’ elbowed me right in the side,” John grumbles as he lets out a melodramatic groan and drags a hand down his face. Paul rolls his eyes.

“I think you’ll survive.” He reaches over to playfully pat John’s ribcage, and John grins, pinching one of Paul’s nipples in response.

“How about you kiss it and make it better?” he leers, jerking his eyebrows up and down. Paul indulges him with an amused smile but puts a cautioning hand on his shoulder, holding him at bay.

“Sorry, love, but I’ve gotta get back to my hotel. No time for funny business.” John pouts and gropes around for Paul’s half-hard cock under the blankets, giving it a teasing squeeze.

“Come on, Paul, you’re already hard,” he croons. Paul shivers but pulls away, crawling out of bed and ignoring the oomf John lets out as he attempts to lean over and swat at Paul’s ass.

“No, Johnny.”

“But you don’t have to be back until what? Eight? That’s two hours.” John sits up and fumbles around for his glasses, cursing as he knocks them to the ground with his hand. Paul rounds the bed and leans down to grab them by the wire nose bridge, gently unfolding them and sliding them onto John’s face, watching his irises magnify behind the lenses.

“You know I’d stay if I could,” Paul whispers. John nods wordlessly, eyes downcast, his mood changing from playful to miserable in an instant. 

“I know,” he finally mumbles. “I just miss you so much.” Paul ruffles John’s matted hair and makes a soft comforting sound.

“I’ll see you later today, you know. It’ll only be a few hours apart. I think you’ll make it.” Paul kisses John’s nose and heads toward the bathroom, picking his clothes up as he goes. “Call down for some tea and maybe some pastries or something. I’m starving.”

As he closes the bathroom door, Paul hears the TV click on, and a peppy advertisement jingle fills the room: _We have the taste! Wendy’s has the taste! Wendy’s, old fashioned, hamburg—”_

“Jesus Christ it never ends. Fucking corporate _shits!”_ John shouts, and Paul chuckles to himself as he starts up the shower, waiting for it to get warm. His stomach is crusty with dried cum, and he scratches at it, watching as a few pieces flake off and float to the tile floor. He attempts to comb through his wiry pubic hair, but it’s tangled and congealed, greasy against his fingers.

He’s in the shower singing an Everly Brothers’ song, his voice sweet and clear in the bathroom acoustics, when John suddenly bangs on the door.

“Paul!” he shouts, and Pauls jumps, dropping the soap and chipping it on his toenail.

“Dammit! What John?” he shouts, groaning as he bends over to pick up the deformed soap.

“Hurry the fuck up! I need to piss and the tea’s here.”

“Give me a minute; I’m almost finished. There’s no need to break the door down.” Paul rolls his eyes and commences to scrub his stomach until the skin is raw and red. He combs through his pubic hair, soaping it up too, thinking that it’s about time he trims it. Linda’s always liked it a little long, but at this point it’s just scraggly.

He hastily brushes his hair with his fingers and dresses in his clothes from yesterday. They smell like sweat and day-old cologne, the markings of a man completing the Walk of Shame.

John is hunched over The New York Times spread open in front of him on the bed, a cigarette smoldering between his lips and a dressing gown tied loosely around his waist. The delicious stack of pastries on the room service tray immediately catches Paul’s eye and he walks over to investigate. The new cable channel, Cable News Network, is playing on the TV, and a pretty woman anchor with chiseled cheeks is droning on about something political.

_“Good morning. I’m Carol Costello and you’re watching CNN Daybreak. In his speech last night, President Carter attempted to reach out to his Democratic rival, Senator Ted Kennedy, asking Kennedy to help turn back the quote "alarming, even perilous" prospect of a Ronald Reagan Republican presidency—”_

“I already got your tea for you,” John says as he flips a page of the paper, smoothing it down when it crinkles in the middle. “Cream and sugar.” Paul smiles fondly.

“Ta, love.” After examining the different pastries available — plain croissant, chocolate croissant, apple fritter, cinnamon bun — he picks up the chocolate croissant and shoves half of it in his mouth at once, chewing and swallowing hard. John briefly looks up and wrinkles his nose.

“That’s why you’re gettin fat, mate,” he says bluntly before turning his attention to the TV. “Not Linda’s cooking.” Paul’s face burns and he immediately drops the half-eaten pastry on the tray, pulling at his button down. He’s silent as he gets his tea and sits cross legged on the bed next to John.

“What all’s in the news today?” he finally asks, motioning to the TV.

“Carter won the Democratic nomination at the convention last night. There was some stupid fuckin’ drama between him and Ted Kennedy. I think they’re both a couple of hypocritical bastards, only slightly better than that twat Reagan.” John slurps up the rest of his tea and puts his cigarette out in the cup. “I pulled the business section out for you,” he says almost absently as he stands and stretches his long arms over his head.

“Thanks; that was nice of you.” Paul grabs the paper and peruses the front page above the fold. A big, bolded headline about rising inflation is front and center, accompanied by an unflattering picture of some dour government official Paul doesn’t recognize. As he unfolds the paper, looking for the stocks, John shrugs and grabs the clothes he’d neatly folded and placed on the suitcase rack the night before.

“I know you like reading that boring shit. Word on the street is that you’ve become quite the businessman.” He says it carelessly, tacking it on like an afterthought, and Paul stiffens in response, wrinkling the edge of the paper in his fist. John can never be nice, not without following it up with an insult. Paul sets his tea down and brushes his hands off on his jeans.

“Right, so I’m off then,” he announces. “Hope you enjoyed the sex. I’m glad to see you still think I’m a giant arsehole.” Paul smiles sarcastically and shoves his cigarettes in his pockets. “All the shit about you loving and missing me was really convincing. Bravo, mate. Maybe you should try acting again.” John rolls his eyes and groans.

“Oh come on Paul,” he says exasperatedly. “Do you have to be so dramatic? The whole storming out thing is starting to lose it’s charm. I don’t think you’re an arsehole, alright?”

“Well I don’t believe you.” Paul shoves his shoes on and barrels toward the door, glaring at John when he blocks the hallway, standing with his feet firmly planted. It reminds Paul of how he used to stand when they performed live, standoffish and angry like he was taunting the audience, daring them to fuck with him. Paul sighs and crosses his arms. “Move out of the way, John. I’m not doing this with you anymore. I don’t know what I thought would happen when I called you, why I thought this time would be different.”

“But it _is_ different, isn’t it,” John challenges, mouth twisted into something close to a snarl. “This time is different and you know it.” Then, taking a deep breath and softening his tone, “Don’t you miss me, Paul?”

Paul barks out a short, ugly laugh and throws his hands up in the air.

“Of course I miss you, you stupid bastard. I’ve told you that! Why else do you think I would call? For a quick shag?” Paul scoffs. “I can get sex any time I want, mate. It’s not the sex. I love you, but you always make it so _hard._ I’m not willing to let you treat me like a punching bag during the day and then fuck you at night anymore. I’m not playing that game again. You say you want me and need me and love me, but you’re acting just like you did during The Beatles. It doesn’t make me feel _loved_ , John. It just makes me feel like shit.”

“I don’t mean half the things I say; they just come out sometimes! That businessman thing was just a _joke_ , okay?” You know that I love and respect you. I was so fucked up on drugs during The Beatles and the early 70s that I don’t even remember half the shit I said.” His breath hitches. “I’ve missed you like crazy, baby. Please.”

“Well maybe it’s not enough — you missing me. What’s the point of this if we make all the same mistakes we made before? I can’t go through that again, John. I’ve got a family to take care of.”

“Who says we have to make the same mistakes? We can start over; it can be better. _I_ can be better.” John’s voice takes on a pleading edge. “I can’t wait another four years before seeing you again. I’m not whole unless you’re with me. I need you. I really do, and I know I’ve got a fucked up way of showing it, but I’m falling apart without you. This past decade was hell for me, and I’ve realized that it’s because you weren’t with me. You’re the missing piece. I don’t want to spend any more time without you. And I know you need me too. It doesn’t take a genius to see that you’re sad.”

“I know.” Paul pinches the bridge of his nose, focusing on the door behind John’s head.

This is the point of no return.

When Paul finally meets John’s eyes, he looks disarmingly vulnerable, like a scared, sad little boy. His glasses have slipped down to the end of his nose, and he’s squinting at Paul over the frames, his pupils tiny pinpricks.

A hazy, drug-addled memory suddenly flashes in Paul’s mind: getting high with John in the back garden at Cavendish, closing his eyes as John gently — almost lovingly — placed the tab on his tongue. John turning his head to reverently stroke Paul’s cheek, handling him like he was a precious artifact.

_“I’m going to love you forever, Paul. I can see it in the stars. We’re two branches of one tree, always meant to be together.”_

Their story is already written. The only thing left to do is see it through.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, babe,” John whispers. “Please.”

Paul squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

“I’m in.”

\---

“Where to?” 

The cab driver, overweight and sweating in the heat, gets right down to business as Paul slides in and shuts the door.

“The Ritz,” Paul says, wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead. “By the park.” The cab driver hesitates, his beady eyes flickering up to meet Paul’s in the rearview mirror. Paul knows he’s been recognized when the cabbie sucks in a sharp breath and wrings the steering wheel with his big, meaty hands.

“Of course.” He chuckles nervously and tacks on a hurried “Mr. McCartney.”

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, mate,” Paul says, motioning to the gear shift with his head. The cabbie’s double chin jiggles as he nods his head quickly, muttering an embarrassed “sorry, Mr. McCartney.”

The cab finally lurches forward, and Paul closes his eyes, half-listening to the end of Billy Joel’s It's Still Rock and Roll to Me. The radio DJ comes back on to announce the next song in a low, sultry voice.

_“It’s Friday, August 15 and you’re listening to 95.5 PLJ, New York’s best music. Next up we’ve got the hottest song in America: Olivia Newton-John’s “Magic!”_

“Oh, I love this one.” The cabbie spins the volume dial up and the song crackles loudly through the sub-par speakers, fuzzy and distorted. Paul nods politely.

“Yeah it’s a good one.” He turns his attention to the city outside his window as the cab rolls to a stop. A group of boys are playing basketball on a busted up blacktop court, their naked, thin torsos shining with sweat. Paul’s mind instantly buzzes with words to describe the scene, lyrics always on the tip of his tongue.

“I remember when they were playing your song non-stop last month,” the cabbie interrupts Paul’s thoughts as the light turns green and they edge forward in the traffic. Paul reluctantly tears his attention away from a thick throng of people crossing the street — a beautiful blur of skin tones, age, and gender — and focuses on the cabbie.

“Hm?”

“Your song,” he repeats. “You know, the one about a flower?”

“Coming Up.”

“What?” The cabbie briefly looks up and meets Paul’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Paul didn’t notice it before, but his eyes are a startling bright blue.

“Coming Up,” Paul repeats. “That’s the name of the song.”

“Right.” The cab rolls to a stop in the middle of an intersection, gridlocked. Horns start blaring. Disgruntled pedestrians weave between the cars, waving away thick clouds of exhaust as they go.

“Traffic is always awful in the morning.” The cabbie pauses. “It was a good song, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Paul digs his cigarettes out and waves the pack around. “Do you mind if I smoke in here?”

“Go right ahead.” Paul rolls the window down and rests his arm against the hot car door, cigarette dangling from his fingers, the muggy air warm against his skin.

The Stones’ Emotional Rescue comes on and Paul smiles wryly. The bass line sounds tinny in the crap speakers, ruining the song. He takes a long drag on his cigarette.

The Ritz is looming in the distance, and Paul feels a thrum of anxiety. He doesn’t know what he’s going to tell Linda. Apologize, apologize, apologize, right? Isn’t that the advice people usually give cheating husbands. Or is it deny, deny, deny?

Of course this isn’t the first time Paul’s done this. Maybe it feels less sleazy because it’s with John and John is _different_. If it was with another woman — or even another man — then he’d feel worse. Somewhere along the way Paul decided that John doesn’t count (because John is _different),_ but now Paul is starting to realize that what he’s doing with John is worse than anything else he could do. Sex is sex, but being in love with someone else, that’s dangerous for a married man.

But he’s always loved John, so John doesn’t count. John is _different._

“Mr. McCartney?” Paul blinks and realizes they’re outside the Ritz, the car door open and waiting for him. He flushes and flips through the bills in his wallet, shoving a handful at the cabbie before hopping out.

“Cheers!”

He figures those dollars will probably end up in a safe somewhere as treasured souvenirs. _“These are the dollar bills Paul McCartney gave me! This cab had a Beatle in it! Paul McCartney ashed his cigarette right there in that seat, right where your ass is sitting.”_

He feels lighter, somehow. Even though he’s dragging himself home to his wife after a night in a hook-up hotel with his newly reestablished male lover, he feels better than he has in a while. A missing piece — that’s how John described it.

For the first time in a while, Paul feels whole.

When he opens the door to their suite and slips in, the sounds of the TV and chattering voices immediately greet him. He hears Linda telling Stella to turn the volume down and James’ chirpy laugh.

Stella is the first to notice him when he walks into the living room.

“Daddy,” she shouts. “You’re missing the movie!” Paul chuckles and walks over to where Stella and Mary are lounging on the velvet couch, leaning down to pull them both into a tight hug.

“What’re you watching?”

“The Rescuers. It’s about these mice who save an orphan girl. It’s pretty good. Not the best Disney movie I’ve seen, though.”

“That’s neat, sweetie. Have you had breakfast?”

“No, Mummy said we were waiting for you, but she ordered waffles. They’re coming soon.”

“Where’s Mummy at?” Paul glances at the TV as the cartoon mice chat animatedly, boisterous orchestral music accompanying their banter.

“She’s in the bedroom with James,” Heather says, looking up from her book. “Did you have fun with Uncle John?”

“I sure did. We’re going to go visit him at his apartment soon.” Paul drops a kiss onto Heather’s head on his way to the bedroom.

He finds Linda sitting on the bed with James, reading him a cardboard picture book. When he walks into the room, she looks up and purses her lips.

“We’ve been waiting for you.” Paul flushes, his face and neck hot, and walks over to give James a quick cuddle, smoothing the boy’s hair back.

“I’m going to take James out to sit with his sisters.”

Back in the bedroom, Linda’s waiting with an eyebrow raised, wearing her patent no-nonsense look.

“Lin, I’m sorry I didn’t come home last night,” he says softly. “I was so tired and I’d had a bit to drink and smoke. I ended up kipping at John’s. I know I should’ve called again and let you know. We just got carried away.” He sucks in a breath and waits for her to tell him off, but she only smiles, a touch of sadness in her eyes.

“It’s alright, baby. I’m not angry; I was just worried about you. John’s known for his… antics… and I don’t want you getting mixed up in any of that. After Japan — I worry about you, is all.” Paul swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, and pulls Linda into a tight hug, burying his face in her neck.

“I didn’t mean to worry you.” Linda wraps her arms around him and strokes his hair.

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay, honey. Just call and update me next time, okay?”

“I will. I promise.” He lays his head on her shoulder and yawns. She chuckles softly.

“How was John? Seems like you had a long night?”

“Yeah. I’m getting a little too old for nights out on the town,” he jokes. “Do you mind if I go freshen up?”

“I’d prefer you do, actually. You’re not smelling your best.” Paul smiles sheepishly and strips out of his clothes, tossing them into the pile of dirty clothes in the corner.

“John’s really excited for us to come over,” he says as he pulls on a fresh pair of jeans and a plaid button down.

“She won’t admit it, but I think Heather’s looking forward to seeing him. You know she’s always had a crush on him.” Paul brushes his teeth for a full two minutes before spitting and rinsing, washing John off his tongue.

“I always catch her listening to his records.” Paul flops down on the bed and buries his face in a pillow. “I think I’m gonna take a quick nap before we leave.”

“You’ll miss breakfast.” Linda pushes her hand under his shirt and rubs his bare back. “I ordered chocolate chip waffles for you.”

Paul remembers John’s comment from earlier and shakes his head.

“I’m not very hungry.”

“You sure? The room service menu says they’re extra fluffy.”

“Save me one and I might eat it later.” Linda pats his back before pulling his shirt back down.

“I’ll wake you up when it’s time to leave.” She flips the light off on her way out, and Paul relaxes into the bed, breathing in deeply. He doubts sneaking around with John will always be this easy. 

\---

He’s jolted out of his nap by Linda shaking his shoulder. Her face goes in and out of focus as he blinks awake, blearily sitting up and rubbing his eyes. 

“Time to go?” he asks, voice rough with sleep. Linda shakes her head and holds the phone out.

“John’s on the phone for you.”

“Is something wrong?”

“He said something about needing to talk to you about the rose?” Linda shrugs and hands him the phone. “Whatever that means.”

Paul waits for her to leave before putting the phone to his ear.

“John?”

“Yeah.” He pause. “Hey.” Paul suppresses a groan and flops back against his pillow.

“What’s up? Is everything okay?”

“Just missing you.”

“We’ve only been apart for a few hours.”

“Yeah and I’ve missed you the whole time!” Paul laughs affectionately.

“Is this how it’s gonna be from now on? A call every few hours?”

“If you behave, maybe I’ll give you up to four hours between updates.” Paul yawns and rubs his eyes.

“Linda mentioned something about you wanting to talk about the rose?”

“Oh, yeah. That was just a codeword for last night. You know, because of the rose you got me? I thought it was clever.” Paul smiles fondly, chest tightening.

“Very clever, Johnny. That thing was half dead by the end of the night.”

“Just like us, son. Middle age is whittling us away.”

“You’re a real source of optimism and positivity in my life, you know,” Paul says dryly, and John snickers.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. You’re just afraid of accepting the truth that it’s all downhill from here.” Paul hears John suck in on a cigarette before exhaling with a sigh. “Are you leaving soon?”

“I dunno. I was asleep. What time is it?”

“Almost 11:30. You should leave soon so you’re not late.”

“It’s about a twenty-minute drive. We’ll leave in a few.” Paul cradles the phone against his shoulder and digs his cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one and breathing in deeply. So much for trying to quit.

“Okay good.” The phone rustles loudly in his ear, and Paul pulls it back, wincing.

“John?” He asks, raising his voice.

“Sorry, I’m here. I was trying to clean up some of Sean’s toys. He’s a fuckin’ terror sometimes.”

“You don’t have to clean for us, you know. We get what it’s like to have kids. Our house is always a mess. I’ll clean a room up, turn around, and find it messy again.”

“Yoko was bitching about the apartment being dirty. Trust me, I wasn’t cleaning for you, son.” Paul chuckles and glances at the alarm clock on the bedside table.

“We should leave. I’ll see you soon, Johnny.”

“Love you,” John croons.

“I love you too, you git.”

\---

Paul’s always hated John’s Dakota apartment. It makes his skin prickle. He knows it’s more Yoko’s style than John’s — organized and colorless. Paul has fond memories of John’s sunroom in Kenwood: shelves stuffed full of books and papers, mismatched furniture and decorations, an organized mess of records and journals full of doodles and song lyrics. John always looked beautiful in the light, backlit and glowing like an angel, his hair red like his mother’s.

John is the one who opens the door, but Paul can see Yoko hovering behind him. Her thick hair is pulled back in a pony tail, wispy fly-aways framing her heart-shaped face. Unlike the rest of them, she wears no outward signs of aging, looking as fragile and demure as a little girl. Paul always forgets how small she is, like a delicate Japanese doll. She’s wearing all black, mysterious and domineering as always. Once upon a time, Paul considered taking her as a lover, but he soon realized they would inevitably destroy each other. Their personalities together would have been too big for something as simple as love. Paul tears his eyes away from Yoko and ushers the children inside. John’s face immediately splits into a grin.

“Hello McCartneys!” he says comically, bending down to peer at Stella and Mary, stroking his chin. “Alright, so you must be Stella,” he says, pointing to Mary. “And you,” he squints at Stella, “you must be Mary.” Both girls giggle and shake their heads, and John smacks his forehead. “Darn. Okay, so you’re Linda and you’re Heather then?”

“I’m Stella and she’s Mary,” Stella says, laughing. John nods and holds his hand out for a shake.

“Right then. It’s lovely to meet you Ms. Stella, and you, Ms. Mary.” John stands and smiles at Heather, pulling her into a friendly hug. “The last time I saw you, you were just a little girl.”

“Hi John,” Heather says shyly, blushing.

“You look just like your mother. Beautiful.” John winks at Linda over Heather’s shoulder.

“Long time no see, John.” Linda hugs John and kisses his cheek.

“Now, where is this elusive sixth McCartney?”

James is hiding behind Paul’s legs, occasionally peeking his head out, and Paul ruffles his son’s hair.

“Say hello to Uncle John, buddy,” Paul says gently. James looks up at him with big, curious eyes, and Paul nudges him forward, smiling as he walks toward John. John lets out a surprised gasp and smiles at Paul.

“He looks just like you, Macca. Got your eyes and everything.” John kneels down and pulls a funny face at James, smiling when James bursts out in delighted peels of laughter. 

That’s when Paul notices Sean standing awkwardly behind his mother, slightly hidden by the doorway. Paul steps around John and approaches Sean and Yoko slowly. Yoko watches him warily, face blank.

“Nice to see you, Yoko.” He murmurs as he waves at Sean, who’s watching them curiously. He’s a beautiful boy, and he looks so much like John that it takes Paul’s breath away. Soft, kind eyes peer out from behind large, aviator glasses that seem to swallow his face whole. He’s a perfect combination of his parents — John’s face shape, Yoko’s button nose. Paul approaches him slowly, like he would a startled deer, and smiles. “Hi Sean,” he says softly. “You probably don’t remember me, but I’m your dad’s friend, Paul.”

“I know you,” he says matter-of-factly. “You wrote songs with my dad.”

“Yep, I wrote all the hits.” Paul winks and Sean suppresses an amused smile.

“That’s not true, Sean!” John shouts from the foyer. “Don’t listen to Paul; he’s a dirty liar.”

“Your dad’s just jealous,” Paul stage-whispers to Sean, and the boy finally laughs. Paul can tell he’s a serious child, that John and Yoko must treat him more like an adult.

“Hey Macca, come help me get some tea together in the kitchen,” John calls out, and Paul shoots Sean a quick smile before trailing John into the kitchen. He hears Yoko inviting Linda into the living room so everyone can sit down.

Based on his past visits, Paul has decided that the only two rooms in the apartment he likes are John’s music room and the kitchen. It’s obvious John spends time in the kitchen: the shelves are stuffed full of different jars and boxes; the counters are cluttered with kitchen utensils, kettles, and coffee pots; and the sink is full of dirty, mismatched dishes. A box of cornflakes is sitting open on the end of the counter and Paul compulsively closes it, sliding it onto the shelf with the rest of the cereal boxes. John rolls his eyes from his spot standing over the stove, waiting for an orange kettle to warm up. “I forget how freakishly clean you are,” he says as he measures out the tea. “If you want, I’ll give you a sponge and you can start on those dishes.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Paul teases and sits in one of the director’s chairs, idly glancing at the mess spread across the kitchen table. He spies a yellow legal pad covered in John’s doodles, a wrinkled receipt for two pounds of salmon from Frank’s Market, an old copy of The New Yorker, and a coffee-stained stack of mail. Paul reaches for the magazine and smooths his hand over the cover — slightly sticky with jam — and smiles. It’s the outside of a flower shop, done in what looks like colored pencils. John has a page dogeared, and Paul flips to it. Page 39. The title of a poem is highlighted with a crooked yellow line.

“For Margaret,” Paul reads aloud, more to himself than to John:

_“My mother near her death_

_ is white as a downy feather.  _

_ I used to think her death was as distant  _

_ as a tropical bird, a giant macaw, whatever that is—  _

_ a thing I have as little to do with as the distant poor.  _

_ I find a single feather of her suffering.  _

_ I blow it gently as she blew  _

_ into my neck and ear.” _

Paul finishes the first stanza, his voice trailing off. John is looking at him, the tea forgotten, with a strange look on his face.

“It’s a nice poem, innit?” he eventually asks, and Paul nods, dragging his finger down the page.

“Yeah.”

“The rest of it is even better.” The kettle whistles and John takes it off the stove. “It made me think of you.” He starts digging through the cabinets, assembling a hodgepodge collection of mugs on the counter. “The poem, that is.”

“Why?”

“The last stanza,” he says without hesitation.

Then, as he pours the tea, he effortlessly recites the stanza, the words flowing off his tongue:

_“Why are the poor cawing, hooting,_

_ screaming in the woods? _

_ I wish death were a whippoorwill. _

_ Why is everything so heavy? _

_ I did not think _

_ she was still helping me carry _

_ the weight of my life. _

_ Now the world’s poor are before me.  _

_ How can I lift them one by one in my arms?”  _

John sets a mug in front of Paul and flips the magazine closed, breaking the spell. “Cmon, help me carry these into the living room.” Paul blinks, yearning to read the rest of the poem — the stanzas in between.

“Don’t you have a tea tray?” he asks even as he takes the second and third mugs John hands him. He glances out the window as John sets the kettle in the sink to be washed. The sunlight streaming in is muted and gray, but Paul can still see dust swirling in the haze. Beautiful, green plants are spilling out the window box and snaking up the windowsill, a bright touch to the otherwise muted, earth-toned room. John shrugs and slips his middle finger through a third mug’s handle.

“I can’t remember where I put it. I think it may be in the bedroom.” He cradles a mug in the crook of his elbow. “It’s fine. We’ll just walk carefully.”

That’s when Paul notices the pink rose sagging over the rim of a hand-painted vase, nestled amongst the window plants. John follows his gaze and flushes. “What?” he asks defensively. “I didn’t wanna just leave it at the hotel.”

“Mmhm. You keep telling yourself that, Johnny.”

“Get your ass in the living room. I’m sure Linda and Yoko have fucking killed each other by now.”

Linda and Yoko haven’t killed each other, but their small talk sounds excruciating. Yoko’s in the middle of asking Linda about the Eastmans — as if she cares — when John and Paul walk in. Both women visibly breathe a sigh of relief.

“Oh good, the tea,” Linda says just a little too enthusiastically, and she stands up, taking one of the mugs from Paul.

Paul hands a mug to Heather, suppressing a smile as she sneaks glances over at John. He can’t exactly blame her. John’s sporting one of the effortless looks he pulls off so well, like he tried but not really. Quintessentially John.

Sean’s soft voice drags Paul’s attention away from John.

“Do you like living in Britain?” he asks, leaning in and watching Paul with his dark, serious eyes. Paul takes a sip of his still-steaming tea and sets it on the coffee table.

“I love it.” Paul turns to face Sean, giving him his full attention. “It’s very pretty.”

“My dad says you live on a farm with animals. We’ve got some cats.”

“We’ve got all sorts of animals on our farm in Scotland. Sheep, pigs, chickens, horses—”

“Horses?” Sean asks, bewildered. “How many?”

“I’ve lost count,” Paul says, smiling at the look on Sean’s face.

“Dad!” he says excitedly. “Did you know Paul has horses?” John looks over and pretends to glare at Paul, putting his hands on his hips.

“Are you putting ideas in my son’s head over there, Macca? Trying to convert him to your _au naturale_ life style?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Paul says dramatically, throwing a hand over his heart and gasping. “Me? Corrupting the youth? Never!” John laughs one of his full belly laughs and shakes his head.

“Of course not. I must be confusing you with Beatle Paul.”

Sean looks slightly confused, not following the conversation, so Paul takes mercy on him and winks.

“You’ll have to come visit me sometime so you can ride some of the horses. Linda’s a great teacher.”

“Mum taught me how to ride,” Stella pipes up. “It’s easy.”

“I’m thinking of taking Sean home after Christmas,” John says. “I wanna take him to old Liddypool and introduce him to Mimi.” Paul immediately grins. _Home_.

“Really? Johnny that’s great!” John and he share a long, loving look before Yoko clears her throat. She’s perched on the edge of the sofa, jaw clenched tightly.

“We’re still discussing it,” she says sternly, voice low. “Isn’t that right, John?” John immediately deflates, his head drooping.

“Yeah, that’s right,” he mutters, and Paul cringes. He doesn’t recognize this John — Yoko’s John — a John so willing to back down, to bow to someone else’s will. An awkward silence settles in the room, and Paul stares down at his tea. He didn’t notice it before, but the mug is from Disney World, faded white with a host of Disney characters happily marching around — a relic of John’s time with May Pang. Paul abruptly sets the mug down. John signed the paperwork to end The Beatles at Disney World.

John and Yoko are whispering quietly to themselves at the end of the couch, and Paul can see storm clouds gathering on John’s brow. He clears his throat.

“Hey John,” he says, cutting Yoko off mid sentence, “do you wanna go to the music room for a bit?” John looks up and frowns.

“Uh, sure,” he says a little reluctantly.

“Great. We’ll be back in a bit; I’ve just got something I wanted to show you.”

Once they’re in the music room, Paul locks the door and collapses down on one of the piano benches. John folds himself into a chair across the room, his expression guarded.

“I’m not in the mood to play music, Paul.”

“I know. Just thought you’d wanna be alone for a bit.” Paul shrugs, and John immediately perks up.

“Well c’mere then!” He pats his lap and pulls one of his close-mouthed smiles. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too. I’m sorry we didn’t get to fool around this morning.” Paul curls up in John’s lap, dangling his legs over the side of the chair. It’s not the most comfortable he’s ever been — John’s thighs are awkwardly thin and bony — but he relaxes anyway.

“Do you think we can see each other tomorrow?”

“We’re supposed to go back to the Eastmans’. They’re having some kind of big cookout thingy—”

“A barbecue.”

“Whatever, yeah, _a barbecue,_ at their house. Lots of extended family are gonna be there. I can’t just not go. What’ll I tell Linda? ‘Sorry love, I’m going to spend the day fucking John instead.’”

“Well I wouldn’t word it like that. I don’t know, just pretend to be sick or somethin’. I used to do it all the time when I wanted to sag off. Mimi bought it every time. And trust me, son, if Mimi can be fooled, then _anyone_ can be fooled.”

“I don’t know,” Paul says uncomfortably. “I’m trying to lie to Linda as little as possible, you know? I don’t want to hurt her.”

“You spend every day with Linda, but who knows when I’ll get to see you again.” John gently starts running his fingers through Paul’s hair. “Please? For me?” Paul heaves a sigh and tilts his head to kiss John’s jaw.

“Alright. I’ll do it.”

“Perfect, because I already rebooked the room,” John says cheekily.

“Of course you did,” Paul mutters. John smirks and nudges Paul’s lower back.

“Hey, sit up a bit. My arm’s falling asleep.”

Paul jokingly shifts so he’s straddling John’s lap, about to turn himself around to lean against John’s chest, when John grabs his hips to hold him in place. He freezes, surprised and off balanced, as John starts kissing down his throat, leaving a wet trail across his skin.

“Johnny,” he cautions.

“Hmm?” John doesn’t pause as he kisses lower, nuzzling Paul’s chest hair.

“You gotta stop.”

“Why?”

“ _Because_.”

“Because _why?”_ John starts to unbutton Paul’s shirt, pausing to tweak both nipples, and Paul’s breath hitches. He’s embarrassingly hard, his cock straining against his zipper, and he blinks back a wave of dizziness as the blood rushes from his head.

If John keeps at it, Paul knows he’ll cream his fucking pants. He bites back a moan when John starts to massage his crotch.

“John, _please_ ,” he begs, his voice cracking. “You’ve gotta stop.”

“Stand up.”

It takes Paul a few seconds to process the request, and he stumbles back when he climbs off John’s lap, his legs numb. “God you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” John growls as he backs Paul up against the wall and drops to his knees. “Don’t make too much noise.” Paul shudders as John pops the button on his jeans and unceremoniously jerks them down.

“John—”

“I said be quiet.” John mouths along the clothed outline of Paul’s cock, poking the dark wet spot and wriggling his tongue against it. Paul chokes on a groan and pushes his hips forward. The feeling of his cock pressing against John’s sharp, Roman nose is enough to make him spill a little, a tiny tremor running through his body.

Paul hisses when John pulls his boxers down only far enough to scoop him out. He stares down at himself, observes John draping his balls, almost delicately, over the front of his boxers. His cock is pointing straight up, and he watches milky precum gather like raindrops before John laps it up with his tongue.

Then John swallows him whole. His cock hits the back of John’s throat and John convulses around him with a wet choking sound. Paul briefly worries that he’s hurt John, but John only pulls off long enough to catch his breath before he takes Paul down again. And again. And again.

Paul’s entire body is shaking. If John wasn’t holding his thighs, he doubts he’d be able to stand. His feet are starting to cramp from curling his toes.

John groans and looks up at Paul. His glasses are falling off, the lenses foggy, and Paul can see tears tangled in his lashes.

They maintain eye contact as John hollows his cheeks out and sucks _hard_.

Paul lets out a sharp cry and comes with a start, his hips canting forward. He attempts to push John away, but John squeezes down on his thighs and swallows around him, easing him through it.

When he finishes, he twists his hips away, and John sits back. His swollen lips are wet with saliva and cum.

“Fuck.” Paul leans his head back against the wall and struggles to catch his breath. “Sorry I didn’t warn you,” he says, voice shaky. John drags a hand across his mouth and shrugs.

“It’s okay. It was hot.” Paul flushes and stuffs himself back in his boxers, clumsily pulling his jeans up and fumbling to button them.

“We should — they’re gonna wonder what we’ve been up to.”

“Shh, just take a minute to get yourself together. There’s a bathroom. Go splash some water on your face.”

Paul does as he’s told, feels a little more clear-headed after he pats his face dry and gargles some water.

John’s sitting at the piano when he walks back into the room, playing something simple, yet beautiful. Paul raises an eyebrow and motions to the keys.

“Thought you didn’t want to play me any of your music?” John shrugs and keeps his head bowed over the keys, curly hair falling in his face. Paul sits beside him and watches his fingers. “Does it have words?”

“Yeah,” John says without pausing. “I wrote the lyrics last month in Bermuda. I’ve been working on the music on and off.”

“Is it for the new album?”

“I’m thinking it could be a single, but I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well it’s beautiful. I’d love to hear you sing it some time.” John stops playing and stretches his arms out.

“I suppose we should go rejoin the party.” He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Though I’d much rather stay here with you.” Paul hums in response, lovingly running his fingers across the keys.

“Me too. You and music are my two favorite things, you know.”

“Too bad you can’t have sex with your guitars.”

“You’re sick, you know that?” Paul says, playfully shoving John out the door and sending him stumbling into the hallway.

“You better watch it, Macca!”

“Uh huh, whatever you say.”

They walk back into the living room, and Linda and Yoko both look up in relief.

“Paul, baby, James is getting tired,” Linda says, shooting him a pointed look. “I think it’s time to go.”

Paul winks at John as he bends down and hauls James into his arms.

“I’ll see you later, Johnny. It was nice getting to catch up some.”

“You McCartneys have fun on the rest of your vacation.”

When they’re in the elevator headed downstairs, Linda gives Paul a funny look.

“Paul, your fly’s down.”

“Huh?” He looks down and blushes, chuckling nervously. “Sheesh, guess I forgot to pull it up after I went to the bathroom.”

“Did you and John have fun in the music room?”

“Uh, yeah. He played me a great new song.” Paul smiles and pulls Linda into a kiss. “Missed you, though.” She relaxes and pecks his lips in return.

“Good.”

\---

Paul’s usually the first one up, followed shortly by James. He got used to waking up early on the farm and figures that, at his age, he should probably get as much out of a day as he can.

Today, though, he stays in bed pretending to sleep.

When Linda wakes up, he makes sure his breathing is slow and steady. He can hear the rest of the family moving around in the suite. Stella loudly declares that everyone needs to shut up so she can watch the Saturday morning cartoons and proceeds to crank the volume up as the Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Hour theme song starts to play.

“Paul?” Linda hesitantly shakes his side. “Time to get up.” After he doesn’t respond, she shakes him again, a little harder, and he groans, tugging the blankets up over his eyes. Linda pulls the blankets back and scoots over to peer down at him, her hair hanging in her face and tickling his cheek. “Hey, what’s wrong baby?”

“I’ve got a terrible headache.” He squeezes his eyes shut and flinches when there’s a loud knock on the door, followed by James announcing that he’s hungry. Linda makes a soft comforting noise and smooths Paul’s hair back.

“I’m sorry. Do you think it’s a migraine? You’ve had those before.” James knocks again, and Paul whimpers.

“I think it is,” he whispers.

“Let me go get the kids taken care of and I’ll be right back.” Paul rolls over and presses his face into his pillow. Linda slips out of the room and the noise in the suite quickly disappears, though he can still faintly hear James chatting away.

When Linda comes back in, she prods him to sit up a little and drapes a cool washcloth over his neck. He lets out another little whimper and holds his head in his hands.

“I don’t think I can go out today, Lin.”

“That’s okay, baby. John and Jodie will understand.” She starts to rub his back. “Do you feel nauseous?” He nods and leans against her. “If you want, I’ll stay here with you. John and Dad can come pick the kids up.” Paul immediately shakes his head.

“No, no, I’ll be okay. I want you to spend time with your family. I’ll be fine. It’s not the worst I’ve had.”

“Okay,” she says hesitantly, “if you’re sure. I’ll get everyone ready and we’ll get out of your hair. Promise me you’ll call the house if you start to feel worse?”

“I will. Don’t worry.”

As soon as everyone is gone, Paul sits up and dials John at the Dakota.

“Hello?” John barks into the phone.

“Don’t sound so happy to hear from me,” Paul says, laughing.

“Oh! Paul, hi. Did you pull it off?”

“Yep. Easy as pie.”

“Good boy,” John croons. “Now, get your ass ready and meet me at the Dakota in an hour. Don’t forget to wear one of your stupid disguises.”

“They’re not stupid. I quite like the mustache look.”

“Dakota, one hour,” John repeats. “And no mustache! It’ll gross me out. All I’ll be able to think about is your fuckin’ pedo-stache you had back in ’74.”

“That was pretty bad,” Paul admits, and John snickers.

“You think? I felt like I was kissing a caveman the whole time!”

“Piss off,” Paul laughs.

“The truth hurts, mate. Now, go get ready! I can’t wait to see you.”

“Don’t be so impatient, Johnny,” Paul chides. “We’ve got the rest of our lives ahead of us. Don’t wish it away.”

“Oh my God,” John groans. “Who died and made you the fucking Philosopher King?” Paul chuckles and lights up a cigarette.

“Lets just enjoy each moment, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

“Whatever you say, oh Wise One!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The copy of The New Yorker](https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1980/08/04) I mentioned was from Aug. 4, 1980 (Issue 2894, Vol. 56, No. 24). The cover was by Eugène Mihaesco, and the poem "For Margaret" by Stanley Moss really was on pg. 39. You have to have a subscription to The New Yorker to view the actual poem, but if anyone wants to read the whole thing lmk and I'll put it in a comment!
> 
> 95.5 PLJ really is a radio station in New York, and CNN Daybreak was one of CNN's original morning shows. It aired from 5-7 am EST. Tbh all the little details like those that I put in this story are 1. real 2. a bitch (but also rlly fun) to research and 3. for my own amusement
> 
> I hope everyone liked the chapter! Feel free to comment what you thought :-)


	3. Only One More Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Somebody's built a home for us  
>  Someday we'll see it standing there  
> But like the wind that has to blow  
> I must be on my way_
> 
> -Only One More Kiss, Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW so this only look a month. My bad, y'all. This chapter was super hard (and not too enjoyable) to write, so it was a lot of slogging to get through it. 
> 
> I kept trying to write it from Paul's POV, until I realized it needed to be in John's. Idk why, but once I started writing it as John, it came easier. 
> 
> This is a bit of a filler chapter, so not too much in the ways of any serious plot development. Squint and you'll find some lighthearted humor and kind-of fluff hidden amongst my Classic Angst.

** John. **

After John gets off the phone with Paul, he’s irritated to hear a quick rap of knuckles and the front door swinging open all at once. The familiar sound of jangling keys and rustling paper bags signifies Fred’s arrival, and John scowls before smashing the button on the radio to turn it on.

_“The 1980s belong to Buick. With the confidence of the new style of the Lesabre and Buick’s triple v6 and Lesabre sport coupe, you see Buick’s new way of doing things—”_

Static crackles as he spins the dial.

_“The average American’s teeth take a terrible pounding from the four gallons of ice cream, 18 pounds of candy and 69 pounds of processed corn sweetness we consume every year. The result?—”_

“Jesus.” Another spin. Then, a familiar, rockabilly beat:

_“This thing called love, I just can't handle it, This thing called love, I must get round to it, I ain't ready, Crazy little thing called love…”_

“Morning, John.” Fred shuffles in balancing two bulging, brown paper bags on his hips. His damp hair is hanging limply on his forehead, and he attempts to blow a strand out of his eye. John grunts in reply and turns the radio volume down as the song fades into a booming disc jokey announcing a prize for the lucky 100th caller. 

“Did you get my ciggies?” John asks as he starts poking around in the bags.

“Two packs,” Fred says, still out of breath. “Here you go.” John snatches the boxes Fred holds out for him and nods. 

“Well, you gonna unpack that shit or what?” 

“Of course.” Fred starts putting the food away, and John does his best to ignore him. He’s never particularly liked Fred — he’s handsome in an irritatingly boyish way, too even-tempered for John to get a rise out of him, and entirely in Yoko’s pocket. She says jump and little Freddy asks how high. “Anything else you need, John?” 

“Turn that radio off. I can’t stand some of this electronic shit they’re always playing.” 

The pulsing beeps and boops emanating from the corner of the room cut off abruptly, and John leverages himself forward to grab his book off the table, where he’d left it last night. There’s a round, brown stain on the back where he’d carelessly — drunkenly — used it as a coaster. 

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and holds the book a little closer to his face, licking a finger before turning the page. Distantly, he hears Fred saying good morning to Sean, and a few seconds later Sean ambles into the kitchen, glancing at John as he goes by.

“Whatcha reading, Dad?” John wordlessly turns the book around, still reading, and shows Sean the cover. 

“Jailbird,” Sean reads slowly, “by Kurt Vonn… Vonn-ehhh—”

“Vonnegut,” John looks up and finishes for him, enunciating it clearly. “The ‘E’ makes an ‘uh’ sound.” Sean scrunches his nose and shrugs.

“Never heard of it,” he says dismissively as he continues into the kitchen and busies himself with nudging the Fruit Loops out of the cabinet, standing up tall on his tiptoes. John smiles affectionately and turns back to his book, absently listening to the sounds of Sean fixing his cereal. He climbs into the director’s chair opposite John and starts slurping it up, reminding John of himself at that age. “Can I have some coffee?” he asks after several bites, dragging a hand across his mouth to wipe off a dribble of milk. John raises his eyebrows and briefly meets Sean’s eyes over his book.

“Nope. It’s bad for you.”

“But you drink it,” he grumbles petulantly. 

“I do lots of things that are bad for me, son.” John lays his book page-down on the table and stretches his arms over his head. “How about I make you some hot chocolate instead?” Sean shrugs and stuffs a heaping spoonful of cereal into his mouth, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk. 

“Yeah alright,” he says after swallowing. 

“What’re you and Helen doing today?” John asks as he twists the stove on and sets the milk to simmer, stirring it once before grabbing the tin can of Nestle Quik from the cabinet.

“Dunno. She said we might go to the zoo.” 

“That sounds like fun.” John stirs in the chocolate powder before adding the rest of the milk. “Grab a mug. Chocolate’s almost ready.” 

“Thanks, Dad.” Sean pushes himself up on the counter and idly kicks his legs, watching John stir the milk. “What’re you and mom doing today? You can come to the zoo with us if you want.” 

“Your mother’s busy,” John mutters as he carefully pours the hot chocolate into Sean’s mug. “Be careful, alright? It’s hot.” 

“So you don’t want to come to the zoo? We’re gonna see the lions. Have you ever seen lions?” There’s a hint of longing in Sean’s voice, but John promptly pushes away any guilt it causes. He lights a cigarette and plops back down in his chair.

“Yeah, I’ve seen lions,” he says, already growing weary of playing the role of ‘Dad’ for the morning. “How about you go watch the cartoons, alright? I think Popeye’s on.” 

To his relief, Sean enthusiastically goes to the living room and turns the TV on. He glances at the time on the microwave and anxiously drums his fingers on the table. Paul’s due in 45 minutes. 

“John?” 

John stiffens when he hears Yoko calling for him. 

“In the kitchen.” John picks his book up and does his best to ignore her as she walks in and stands in the doorway.

“John. Put your book down so I can speak to you.” John rolls his eyes and dramatically snaps his book closed. 

“Of course, _mother_ ,” he mutters. “What do you need?”

“I have Charlie on the phone. Let him read your cards for you.” John immediately tenses and feels jealousy flare up in his chest. Fucking _Charlie Swan._ The all-knowing guru with his phony cards and cocked up star bullshit. John knows he’s the one Yoko’s having an affair with; it was easy enough to connect the dots.

“What if I don’t want my cards read?” John snaps. “Why can’t I go one fucking day of my life without some magic bullshit hanging over me head?” Yoko narrows her eyes and points at the phone on the wall. 

“You’ll talk to Charlie and do as he says,” she says coldly. “He’s here to help you, John.” 

“I don’t need any fucking hel—”

“Pick up the phone,” Yoko repeats. John glares at her for a few more seconds before deflating and grabbing the phone off the hook. 

“Fine.” He turns his back to Yoko and leans against the wall. “Hello Charlie,” he drawls. “Hit me with your bullshit for the day.”

“It won’t work if you don’t take it seriously, John,” Charlie says patiently, like he always does. 

“I’m in a bit of a hurry here.” Charlie pauses and sighs wearily. 

“Your horoscope looks good today. I suggest you go out and enjoy some company, maybe call up a friend or two.” John smirks to himself _._

“Right. Now onto the magical cards.” John hears some rustling in his ear.

“Wheel of fortune,” Charlie starts. “Your life’s going to be changing for the better soon. You should trust your intuition when making important decisions.” A pause, followed by more rustling. “Death. You’re looking for change, to start anew.” Charlie hums thoughtfully. “Have you been thinking of making any big life decisions lately, John?” His voice is carefully neutral, and it makes John’s teeth clench in anger.

“Nope. Nice try, though. You sure are Yoko’s little spy, aren’t you?”

“I’m only trying to help you, John. Are you sure you’re being truthful?” Charlie presses, and John has the sudden awful thought that maybe he _knows_. Last night, John had lain awake imagining what it would feel like to ask Paul to run away with him, somewhere it could be John’n’Paul and no one else. Maybe Charlie can see into John’s dreams. 

John wipes a bead of sweat off his temple. Stupid fucking Charlie and his stupid gypsy magic. 

“Look, I don’t have time for this shit.” 

“Strength,” Charlie continues like John hasn’t said anything, raising his voice. “It’s reversed. You don’t seem to have the inner strength this card normally brings, and you’re fearful of lacking the willpower to deal with someone negative in your life.”

“You’re a twat, you know that? Fuck you, Charlie.” John slams the phone down and glares at Yoko.

“I hate this crap. Why can’t you leave me out of you and Charlie’s mystical little dalliance? You can fuck him and have him read your cards as much as you like, but I don’t want anything to do with it.” 

“You need guidance in your life, and Charlie can provide that.” 

“Whatever, look, are you going out or staying in today? Because I’ve got stuff to do.” 

“I’m going out.” She smooths her hair out of her face and smiles, eyes narrowing like a snake’s. “See Sean off when Helen comes by. She should be here soon.” 

John doesn’t respond as he grabs his book off the table and stuffs his cigarettes in his back pocket. 

“Have fun with Charlie,” he calls over his shoulder as he stomps into the living room, throwing himself down on the couch beside Sean. A moment later the door closes and John breathes a sigh of relief.

“Dad?” 

John startles when Sean nudges his leg to get his attention. “Are you and Mom mad at each other?” His eyes are pinched in confusion, lips quirked into a frown, and it makes John’s stomach churn with guilt.

“We’re not mad at each other,” he finally says. “We’re just… I don’t know. It’s nothing you need to worry about, okay?” 

“But—”

“Sean,” John snaps. “I said it’s nothing you need to worry about. Don’t ask me about your mother again.” Sean flinches and turns back to the TV. John sighs and opens his book, staring at the words but not really reading them.

Sean is subdued when Helen comes to pick him up, slinking around like a wounded puppy, and Helen glares at John with a knowing look in her eye. 

“I see you’ve upset him again,” she hisses as she grabs Sean shoulder and yanks him against her chest as if John’s someone she has to protect him from. “Say goodbye to your daddy, Sean.” Helen keeps her eyes on John, like she’s worried he may strike. Sean raises his hand in a half-hearted wave, a guarded look on his face, as she whisks him out the door. 

Maybe, John muses, he _is_ someone Sean has to be protected from. Sometimes, when John looks in the mirror, he can’t decide if he’s seeing himself or his father. Julia showed John pictures of Alf when he was younger – lean and handsome in a peculiar, twisted sort of way. They look similar enough: same hook nose, squinty eyes, and sharp jaw. Same piece-of-shit tendencies. 

John paces the length of the apartment, periodically pausing to check the time. Paul’s already five minutes late. Anxiety burns in John’s stomach, because of course nothing’s going to change: Paul’s still going to treat John like some afterthought, like he couldn’t be bothered to pay poor, sad John Lennon any mind. Paul never really needed John, not the way John needed him. 

Seven minutes late. John balls his hands into fists and kicks the wall, scuffing it with his shoe and leaving a long, ugly black mark. 

“Fucking _cunt,”_ he shouts, his voice ringing in the empty apartment. “Fuck!” 

The door buzzer stops him in his tracks, and he practically stumbles over himself to press the button. The doorman’s crackly voice informs him that one Paul McCartney is in the lobby waiting to see him. John’s breath hitches, and he lets out a hysterical little giggle. “Yeah, yeah, send ‘im up.” 

He unlocks the front door and hurries over to the couch, arranging himself into something resembling ‘casual and in control.’

“John?” Paul calls out. 

“In the living room!” John wipes his sweating hands off on his jeans and pretends to read more of his book. 

He hears Paul before he sees him, tipped off by his chirpy whistling. 

“‘Lo, Johnny,” he says in a sugary sweet, sing-song voice, and John’s instantly irritated by his cheerfulness — the ease with which he glides through the living room, light on his feet. These days, John always feels horribly awkward, plodding around with heavy footsteps and storm clouds gathering on his brow. 

“What’s got you in such a good mood this morning?” he mutters. Paul’s smile falls for half a second, almost like a nervous tick, before he plasters it back on, eyes now cautiously void of emotion. 

“Just excited to see you, is all,” he says. “Everything alright?” He keeps his voice light, but John watches the little twitch of anxiety on his face, the slight, apprehensive dart of his eyes. 

“Oh things are just dandy,” John says vaguely. “Want some tea?” 

“Sure.” Paul’s still got that pleasant smile frozen on his face, a blank look of contentment perfected through years and years of practice. “What’ve you been up to this morning?” He trails John into the kitchen, where he makes himself comfortable at the table, rubbing at a milk stain with his thumbnail. 

“Upset Sean, fought with Yoko, talked to Charlie Swan.” John grabs the jar of Earl Grey. “He’s the one Yoko’s fucking. I’ve always wondered if he reads her cards before they do it.”

“Have you talked to him about it?” John barks out a harsh laugh. 

“Yeah, and I cut me shriveled prick off and sent it to him in the mail as a little prezzie, too.” He turns around and glares at Paul. “No, of course I haven’t fucking talked to him about it. Jesus, Paul.” 

“I was just wondering,” he says calmly. “No need to bite my head off.” 

“Whatever.” John grabs one of Yoko’s dainty Japanese tea cups — cerulean with a brightly painted, koi fish pattern — and slams it down in front of Paul. The tea sloshes onto the table, and Paul chases the spill with his finger. 

“What do you want to do today? I brought a ball cap and some sunglasses. No mustache, as per your request.” Paul puts his finger on his top lip and wiggles it, and John can’t help but snicker a little. 

“You’re daft.”

“If I’m daft, then what does that make you?” Paul asks without missing a beat, arching one perfectly shaped eyebrow. 

“Har har har, very funny,” John deadpans. Then, suggestively jerking his eyebrows up and down Groucho Marx style, “you know, we could always go straight to the hotel.” 

Paul shrugs noncommittally in response, looking uninterested in the offer.

“Yeah, I suppose we could.” He starts absently drumming his fingers. “We’ve got all day, though. I don’t know if I fancy spending the entire day cooped up inside.” 

“Fine. Then what do _you_ propose we do?” 

“We could go for a walk in the park?” he suggests, almost shyly, his earnest eyes looking like two shining emeralds in the sunlight. 

“A walk in the park,” John repeats, like he’s mulling it over in his head. “Hmm. Bit queer, innit?” Paul flinches, a splotchy, red blush creeping up his neck, and chuckles nervously.

“I thought it would be nice. We don’t have to if you don’t want to.” John lights a cigarette and tips his head back to blow lazy, fat smoke rings into the air. 

“Nah. A walk sounds nice, I guess. Figure I can probably use the exercise.” It’s a sorry excuse for an olive branch, but Paul takes it anyway. 

“Great. I haven’t been on a proper walk in Central Park since Linda and I were here in ’69.” Paul leans forward and holds his chin in his hands, his face softening. “It was very freeing, being able to do that.” 

“I know. You wouldn’t shut up about it when you got home.” 

Paul pointedly ignores John’s comment. 

“You should put a hat on or something. Sunglasses, too.” 

“Right. Be back in a bit.” John leaves Paul sitting in the kitchen and locks the bedroom door behind him. The last thing he wants is Paul following him through the house, poking around in the room he shares with his wife.

His mammoth closet stares back at him as he scans the little rack of hats, frowning. The black beret would be too obvious, and he looks silly in a ball cap, especially one featuring a cartoonish, embroidered Donald Duck. Then there’s the tan flat cap he used to be so found of. He grabs it and pulls it on, craning his neck back and forth to check the different angles. 

“John?” He hears Paul jiggling the door handle and quickly looks around for his shoes. He jumps when Paul suddenly bangs on the door. “Hey, why’d you lock the door? Is everything okay?” 

“I’m just looking for my shoes. If you’d shut up I could concentrate and find them!” John drops down to his belly to check under the bed, groaning as his joints creak in protest. 

“Well can you let me in? Why’d you lock the door?” There’s a hint of panic in Paul’s voice – the way he used to sound when John would get too stoned to function. “John—”

“Christ, I’m coming!” John shouts as he wearily uses the bed to drag himself off the floor. Paul startles when he throws the door open. 

“What the fuck are you doing in there?” he demands, squaring his shoulders and glaring at John. “Are you doing heroin again? Because if you are, I can help you, okay? You just have to tell me the truth.” 

“I’m not doing heroin.” John pushes past Paul and starts searching for his shoes, sticking his head into Sean’s room and shuddering at the mess on the floor. A big plastic bucket is tipped on its side, a ridiculous amount of legos spilling out and across the carpet. 

“John!” Paul stomps up behind him and grabs his shoulder. “Don’t walk away from me while we’re having a serious discussion.” 

“We’re not having a serious conversation; you’re just being ridiculous. I told you I’m not doing heroin. What else do you want from me?” 

“Then why’d you lock the door?” 

“I’m entitled to locking my own door, aren’t I?” John mutters as he sidesteps Paul and moves on to the living room. “Can you help me look for my shoes? The blue sneakers? Nikes, I think. Or maybe Reebok. I can’t remember.” Paul wordlessly starts looking around the room, a pouty little scowl still twisting his lips. 

“They’re right here,” Paul says after several minutes of hunting. “Found ‘em in the kitchen.” John wriggles out from under the couch and sits back on his heels, brushing dust bunnies out of his hair. 

“Er, right. That’s where I left ‘em.” He rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly.

Paul holds the shoes out and purposefully turns his head to stare at the windows past John’s head. John rolls his eyes and starts tugging his shoes on standing up, lifting his right leg. He immediately wobbles on his left foot and reaches out blindly, arms flailing, to grab ahold of Paul’s forearm. 

“If you’d sat down like a normal human being you’d have those on by now,” he says dryly. 

“Will you piss off with this fucking attitude of yours?” John brushes his hands off and glances at his reflection in the black television screen. 

“Oh, so now _I’m_ the one with the attitude? You’ve been a right bastard to me since I got here. Am I really that annoying to you John? Still, after all this time?” Paul drags a finger down his nose and itches at the skin – his signature nervous tick. John has half a mind to ignore the comment and get on with their morning, but he knows that would be inappropriate. 

“You don’t annoy me, Paul. I just took my bad mood out on you. I was bitching at Fred this morning, too. It’s not you, alright?” 

They both know it’s a shit half truth, but Paul only nods and stuffs his hands in his pockets. 

“Alright. Sorry for going all barmy on you.” He pauses and gnaws on his bottom lip. “You about ready to go then?” 

“You _sure_ you don’t wanna go to the hotel?” John asks as they ride down the elevator, smirking at the way Paul glances at the elevator operator in alarm, but the man’s stern face is schooled into a blank, uninterested mask. 

“Piss off,” Paul mutters, and John can’t help but laugh. 

The sun is hanging low in the sky, still partially hidden by the skyscrapers, when they step outside. It’s pleasant in the shade, and they end up walking close enough for their shoulders to brush every few steps. John aches to slip his arm through Paul’s, like they did in Paris, but he doesn’t dare. He pulls out the fresh pack of Galouises and offers it to Paul. 

“Want one?” 

“Sure. Ta.” Paul tears the plastic wrapper off and peels back the aluminum flap, sliding a ciggie out and sticking it in the corner of his mouth. They head across the crosswalk, stepping around groups of sweaty tourists with soggy maps clutched in their hands. Heat is rising off the streets in waves. John glances sideways at Paul, whose got his eyes trained on a rail-thin punk with a guitar busking down the street, his thick studded belt catching the light.

“Paul, mate, the entrance is this way.” John grabs his elbow and tugs him toward the nearest park entrance, but Paul shakes his hand off.

“Let’s go listen to the lad play for a bit.” He motions with his head to the punk.

“He’s got green hair, Paul. I doubt he’s any good.” 

“Well I’m going to go listen to him. Feel free to join me.” With that, Paul starts off in the opposite direction, leaving John standing on the corner. 

“Christ,” John mutters under his breath as he weaves his way through the crowd meandering near a hotdog cart. The fat owner is huddled under the tattered blue-and-yellow umbrella, wiping his face off on the hem of his yellowed apron. 

Out the corner of his eye John can see Paul standing near the punk, nodding his head along. The kid’s guitar looks awkwardly large in his spindly arms, and it doesn’t help that it’s painted an electric green. John wonders whether the matching hair color is a coincidence or part of the act. 

“Hey buddy, you want a hotdog or not? You’re blocking the way.” John blinks and glances over at the hotdog man.

“Sorry. Uhh…” John glances at the large picture of a hotdog on the front of the cart, an artful line of mustard snaking down its length. A cartoon bottle of mustard, complete with a crooked smile and bulging, crazy eyes, is resting its hand on the bun. An enthusiastic endorsement if John’s ever seen one. He straightens up and smiles. “You know, yeah, I’ll take one of the big ones. The jumbo one, you know?” He gestures to the picture.

“They’re all jumbo here in the USA.” Sweaty hotdog man ducks down and emerges with a smoking hotdog. “Ketchup and mustard?” 

“Please.” Then, John leans forward to peer at the bottles of soda on display. “And a, uh, a Coke.” 

“Two dollars.” John fishes a five out of his money clip and passes it over, fumbling to take the hotdog and Coke at one time. 

“Keep the change.” He sticks the Coke under his armpit and takes a big bite of his hotdog. He scans the street and exasperatedly sees that Paul is still indulging the kid. John shoves another obscene bite of the hotdog in his mouth and swallows it hard, licking his lips. 

When John gets close enough to hear the punk singing, he almost spits out his hotdog.

_“Yesterday, All my troubles seemed so far away, Now it looks as though they're here to stay—”_

“Singing the Best Fucking Song of All Time, I see,” John drawls as he walks up. The punk stumbles over the next lyric and flushes in response before he fumbles around and finds the next chord. Paul shoots John a sharp look.

“Shurrup,” he hisses. “He’s doing a fine job.”

“Mm,” John hums. “Just a bit odd that some punk is out here singing Yesterday, innit? Unless, of course, the nice man watching put in a request?” 

“Perhaps the nice man did put in a song request or two,” Paul says in an affected, silly posh accent. “Now hush. I was having a perfectly nice time listening before you came over here and started nattering away.”

“You’re no fun.” John twists the Coke open and holds it out for Paul. “Want some? It’s cold.”

“Ta.” 

The punk finishes off Yesterday with a poorly executed, added guitar riff, but Paul stills claps enthusiastically. John pops the rest of the hotdog in his mouth and brushes his hands off. 

“Can you play any Elvis?” he asks in an exaggerated American accent, doing an Elvis-like hip swivel to punctuate his point. The punk raises his eyebrows and nods. 

“Sure can.” He twists his mouth into an Elvis snarl, and John laughs, delighted. 

“Thank you, thank you very much,” he replies in his best Elvis impression, and Paul snorts.

“You’re no better than him,” he says as the punk starts to sing a rousing rendition of Hound Dog, doing his best to jerk and gyrate his hips like The King. Paul turns to John and grins, eyes sparkling with amusement. 

The punk finishes the song off with a flourish, and Paul immediately pulls his wallet out and drops a handful of bills into the open guitar case. “Keep up the good work, son,” he calls over his shoulder as he turns and walks toward the park. The kid’s eyes widen in recognition, but Paul’s already disappeared through the crowd. John shoots him an impish grin and shrugs his shoulders. 

“Never know who you might find out and about!” 

Paul’s waiting for John on a park bench, lazily smoking a cigarette and giving a splattered mess of bird shit a wide birth.

“He wasn’t actually half bad, you know.” He looks up and blows a wispy smoke ring in John’s direction. 

“The green-hair kid?” 

“Yeah. He had a nice voice, just needed a bit of practice on the guitar.”

“Sounds like someone we know,” John jokes, extending a hand to haul Paul off the bench. 

_“Come and go with me, Down, down down to the penitentiary,”_ Paul sings.

“I still like my version better.” 

“So do I.” Paul smiles, eyes crinkling, and John suddenly feels buoyed by the warm sunlight and Paul’s naked affection. 

“Sorry for being a jerk earlier,” he says, watching as Paul tries to hide his surprise at receiving a valuable John Lennon apology. 

“I—Oh, well, thanks. I understand, you know. Everyone gets a bit crabby every now and then. You’re entitled.” 

“I’m crabby more often than not and you know it. No need to placate me.” 

“I really do hate fighting with you, you know.”

“I know. I’ll try to mind me manners.” 

Paul’s face suddenly lights up and he points to their left. 

“Oo, let’s go over there, Johnny. Look how beautiful!” John follows Paul’s finger and sees the ornate Bow Bridge, packed with people talking animatedly. A young couple is wrapped up in each other’s arms, holding a small camera out in front of them to capture a snapshot of the moment. Couples in rowboats are lazily passing under the bridge, gliding in the murky, green-ish water and waving at the children hanging over the rails above them. 

Paul’s already crossing the path, headed toward the bridge, and John hurries after him, sidestepping a group of boys playing hacky sack. 

“Oi, Macca, slow down will ya?” John asks as he reaches out to grab his elbow. “Not all of us are eternally youthful, you know.”

“Oh hush. You’re not even forty yet.” 

“I will be soon.” 

Paul hums in response and rests his elbows on the rail, staring out at the buildings peeking over the tree line. “There’s the Dakota,” John murmurs, motioning to the pointed, Gothic arches just barely visible through the trees.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” John says honestly, mesmerized by the way the sunlight is illuminating Paul’s profile, casting shadows in the hollows of his eyes. 

John can tell the comment catches Paul off guard by the way he ducks his head, averting his eyes. 

“Thanks,” he finally says softly, and John gets the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that Paul doesn’t quite believe him, but then a toddler nearby starts to scream and the heaviness of the moment — whatever it was — passes. 

“I love to sit in my window and watch the park,” John says, trying to pick the conversation back up. “But it kind of depresses me in the winter when all the trees die and stuff. It’s pretty when it snows, though.” 

“I bet so.” Paul motions to the rowboats with his head. “That looks nice.” 

“I took Sean once. It gets a bit old after a while. My arms got tired.” Paul chuckles and turns to rest his back against the rail, tipping his head back and exposing his smooth neck, darkened with the beginnings of a shadow.

“You want some grass?” he asks, apropos of nothing, and John laughs in surprise, because _of course_ Paul has weed. 

“Bit obvious lighting up a joint in the middle of Central Park, mate. The cops are always out here sniffing around with their disgustin’ piggy noses.” 

“Ah, but I rolled a couple‘a spliffs, you see,” Paul says teasingly, reaching into his back pocket to pull out his used Galouises box. He produces two expertly rolled spliffs with a flourish, grinning. “Used some Swishers. Should taste like strawberry.” 

“You bastard. Give me one of those.” 

They smoke in content silence, occasionally sharing knowing little glances. “That’s good stuff, Macca.”

“I know.” Paul sighs happily. “Lets find a nice spot to lie around.”

They choose a knoll across from the bridge, and Paul promptly lies down in the grass, folding his arms behind his head. His eyes flutter shut, and John takes the opportunity to study him: the faint lines under his eyes, the flap of skin just barely hanging over his left eyelid that gives it a hooded look. His hair is a little lighter, subtly graying, but he looks younger, somehow, than the last time John saw him. It must be the way his hair is cut shorter again, handsomely swooping across his forehead in a more sophisticated iteration of the Beatle haircut. 

“Hey Paul, you know I meant what I said earlier,” John murmurs, smiling as Paul cracks an eye open. 

“About what?” 

“You being beautiful.” John glances around before brushing a few strands of Paul’s hair back into place. “You’ve always been the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” Paul squirms under the scrutiny, sitting up and crossing his arms over his chest, as if to protect his core. 

“I don’t look the way I used to.” He scratches his nose and licks his lips. “I doubt I’d even be able to squeeze myself back into my Beatle suits.”

“Who gives a fuck about that?” John squeezes Paul’s knee, and he jumps like he’s been poked with a cattle prod.

“How about we just lie back and watch the clouds, alright?” he asks. “I’m a bit too high to talk.” John shrugs and settles down on the warm grass beside Paul, deciding he’ll have to approach the topic again some other time. 

As they lie there, he catches a whiff of Paul’s sour body odor and knows he probably doesn’t smell much better. The sun is climbing higher in the sky, and he has to squint from behind his sunglasses to avoid the glare.

Paul suddenly nudges him and points. “Hey, that one looks like a dog. See the floppy ears?”

“Looks more like a bunny to me.” 

Paul hums thoughtfully in response, and John chuckles and points to a cloud hanging above the trees. “That one looks like a prick. See? That cloud below it is the balls.” 

“Only you would turn cloud watching into something dirty,” Paul says dryly, though John can feel him shaking with suppressed laughter. 

“I bet I can find a pair of tits too.” 

“Oh I don’t doubt it.” Paul snickers. “That one over there kind of looks like an arse. The one right by that tree?”

“Hm, a bit, yeah. Sort of deformed, though. Left cheek is bigger than the right.” 

“Ew, John.” 

“Hey, you know I’m right!” John says goofily, elbowing Paul in the side. 

They lapse into silence, and John reaches up to wipe at the sweat gathering at his hairline. It’s getting uncomfortably hot under the sun, and he can feel the hotdog churning in his gut. The weed starts rippling through his body in waves, traveling from his stomach up through his throat, and he tries to breathe through it. 

“This weed is making me sleepy,” Paul says, voice thick like molasses in John’s ears. “Maybe we should go back to the hotel before I fall asleep lying here. I doubt they take kindly to that. They’d probably think we were a couple of bums.”

“Yeah.” John struggles into a sitting position and closes his eyes against the way the world tilts and swirls. 

“Alright, Johnny?” 

“Feeling a bit sick. That’s some strong stuff, Macca.” Paul makes a comforting noise and pats John’s back. 

“Lets go to the hotel and cool off some.” 

The taxi ride feels longer than it should. Time seems to stretch out, minutes turning into hours. Ever the performer, Paul makes polite chit chat with the driver. He’s taken on a silly German accent, like he used to do in Hamburg when they were messing about on stage and mocking the audience. “Oh, yah, yah,” he’s in the middle of saying, “the city is very nice. Ich möchte ein bier, bitte.” 

John snorts and rolls his eyes. It’s one of the only German phrases they bothered to learn: “I want a beer, please.”

“Huh?” The cab driver glances back as they roll up to a red light. 

“My friend said he thinks your city is beautiful,” John says in his own German accent.

“Eh, it’s alright. Kind of dirty. Lots of bums laying around. Politicians are always talking about cleaning the damn place up but never get around to it. Next time someone tries to get my vote by promising to clean the shit out of the streets, I’m gonna tell them to fuck off.” The cab jerks forward when the light turns green, and John’s stomach lurches in response. He startles when Paul reaches over to rub his back, mouth still moving in conversation, the clunky German accent in full force. 

As soon as they get to the hotel, Paul gives the driver a generous tip, complete with a wink and a guttural ‘danke,’ and climbs out of the cab. John moves to slide out behind him, but Paul holds up a hand and rounds the car, opening John’s door for him. He narrows his eyes as they make their way through the unnecessarily elegant-looking lobby. A towering stone fountain that had been turned off yesterday morning is gurgling in the center of the room, shooting jets of water from mock-Gothic gargoyles’ mouths.

“How tasteful,” John mutters, and Paul chuckles as he places a protective hand on John’s lower back, like he used to when John was too stubborn to wear his glasses. 

“It’s a bit much,” Paul agrees as they board the mahogany paneled elevators. John takes the opportunity to step away from Paul, watching as his hand stays suspended in the air for half a second before he drops it to his side. 

“I’m a little nauseous, not dying. You don’t have to be all gentlemanly with me,” John says. It comes out sounding harsher than he’d intended, and he curses himself as he watches the flicker of pain in Paul’s eyes. 

“Sorry. Bit of a habit, I suppose, with Linda and kids, you know. I didn’t even realize I was doing it.” The elevator doors open, and Paul steps around him, heading in the direction of their room. 

“Christ, I didn’t mean to make you mad,” John says exasperatedly as he hurries after Paul, reaching him right as he unlocks the door. 

“I’m not mad.” 

“Sure seems like you are,” John mutters as he trails Paul into the room, toeing his shoes off and leaving them by the door. Paul immediately grabs them and neatly lines them up beside his own. 

“You feeling any better?” he asks as he fiddles with the thermostat, turning it down low. John shrugs and tosses his hat and sunglasses on the side table. 

“Yeah. I smell disgusting though. You wanna take a shower?”

“Sure. I’ll get it started.” 

Paul disappears into the bathroom, and John sheds his clothes, frowning as he catches his reflection in the full length mirror on the closet door. He prefers to keep himself clothed, where it’s harder to see the sharp, protruding bones bulging under his skin. He reaches up to run a hand through his hair, and his wedding band catches the light. On impulse, he pulls it off and sticks it in his jeans pocket, remembering the way Paul’s throat had closed up when he’d pointed out the thin band on John’s finger. 

A cloud of steam billows around him as he pushes the bathroom door open, amused to find Paulstanding over the toilet taking a piss with his chin lazily resting against his chest. 

“That looks like one hell of a piss,” John says and playfully smacks Paul’s bum, causing him to accidentally spray the back of the toilet seat in his surprise. 

“John! Dammit. It _was_ one hell of a piss until you interrupted.” He shakes himself clean and, muttering under his breath, gathers a wad of toilet paper and mops up the toilet seat. 

“Sorry, baby. How will I ever I make it up to you?” John croons, earning a murderous glare from Paul as he washes his hands. 

“Just get in the shower, you prick.” John grins and, grabbing the base of his still-flaccid cock, waggles it around.

“Yessiree!” 

Paul pulls a face and points sternly at the shower. 

“You’re going to get yourself in trouble, Johnny.” 

“Oo, I like the sound of that!” 

As soon as Paul steps in, John immediately wraps him in a hug and holds him close under the spray of water, delighting in the way the droplets of water look tangled in his long lashes. “I had something a bit different in mind for our last afternoon together.” 

“Oh?” Paul asks, the breath catching in his throat. John can already feel Paul hardening against his thigh, and it sends a tingle down his spine. 

“Mmhmm.” John slides his hands down Paul’s back and starts to massage his ass, grinning at the funny little sound Paul lets out. 

“Johnny,” he warns, attempting to pull back. “I don’t know about that.” 

“Well, this lad certainly does.” John taps the head of Paul’s cock and watches it twitch. He’s trying to keep the atmosphere lighthearted, but Paul steps back and attempts to cover his erection with his hands, embarrassed. “Oh come _on,”_ John says, “being on the bottom doesn’t make you any more fucking queer than you already are. You’ve enjoyed it before.”

“I was drunk or high or both when we did that,” Paul says firmly. “And now I don’t want to. I’ve got a wife and kids. I can’t go around having a prick shoved up my arse.” John rolls his eyes and feels anger flare inside him.

“Oh please. In case you don’t remember, I’ve got a wife and kids too, so what’re you saying? You think I’m less of a man than you?” John sneers. “Is that what you think, Paul?” Paul flinches.

“I don’t think you’re less of a man than me, John, don’t be daft. I just—”

“Don’t want to be the bitch?” John finishes for him. “Right? Because then everyone would be right about you. A boy with a pretty face like that must like gettin’ it from behind. That’s what they used to say, innit?” Paul’s face twists in anger.

“Fuck you,” he snaps before throwing the shower curtain back and stepping over the tub, looking uncharacteristically graceless in his anger. “I’m going home!” The bathroom door slams behind him, and John feels a shock of anxiety strong enough to make him clutch his stomach.

“Paul, wait!” He shuts the shower off and stumbles into the bedroom, still dripping wet. He can feel the thin carpet getting soggy under his feet, and Paul looks at him in shock, immediately wrapping him in the used towel laying on the bed.

“John,” he admonishes. “You’re getting water everywhere!” He starts to mop John off, kneeling down to get his legs. The image makes John shudder, his cock giving a little twitch. 

“Sorry. Just, please don’t leave, alright? I’m sorry for what I said.” Paul sighs and clambers to his feet. 

“No, I should be the one apologizing. I was being an arsehole.” He sits on the bed, and John notices for the first time that he’s still naked. 

“You’ve got such an old-school views of things. It doesn’t have to be one or the other, you know? You can still ‘be a man’ — whatever that means — and enjoy getting it up the arse. It doesn’t mean anything, not really.” Paul chuckles and takes John’s hand, giving it a light squeeze. 

“I know. I overreacted. Maybe in the future we can do it _that_ way, but not today.” John nods in understanding.

“We’re a couple of right drama queens, aren’t we? Always storming off and shoutin’ at each other.” 

“It wouldn’t be John’n’Paul without the drama,” Paul jokes. 

“It sure wouldn’t be,” John agrees dryly, dramatically flopping back on the bed as if to prove his point. “Have I gone and sufficiently killed the mood, then?” The bed dips as Paul lies down beside him, propped up on his elbow. 

“Nah. I’ll get ‘im up again soon enough.” John squints his eyes as Paul starts to leisurely stroke himself, only pausing to grab a ciggie from the bedside table, the bastard. 

“You’re such a dirty poofter.” John plucks the cigarette from between Paul’s lips and bats his hands away, taking over the job. His cock is smooth and heavy in John’s hand, though still a little spongy and soft along the shaft. A few more strokes will fix that.

Paul sighs and rolls onto his back, and John moves with him, reaching over to crush the cigarette out and slinging a leg over Paul’s waist. “This okay?” 

“Yeah, except your arse is fucking bony."

“Mm, well you better get used to it. I’m gonna ride you.” 

For now, it’s as close as John can get to being on top. Paul peers up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, and John catches a hint of vulnerability in his lazy stare. 

John does his best to keep a steady rhythm going as he bounces on Paul’s cock, feeling the muscles in his thighs burning in protest. He’d forgotten how laborious it was to be the one on top. Paul writhes beneath him, grunting and raising his hips to match John’s movements. 

Then, he suddenly seizes up and squeezes down on John’s shoulders hard enough to hurt.

“God I love you, John Lennon,” he gasps, voice throaty and bordering on emotional. 

The use of his full name — and the rough edge to Paul’s words — catches John off guard, and he stills, Paul’s cock still buried inside him. He takes a shaky breath and leans forward to kiss Paul, firm and close-mouthed.

“I love you, too.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Paul whispers. “Come home to England with me.” The nonsensical, misguided statement sounds odd coming from Paul, usually so logical in his thinking. 

“I would if I could,” John lies as he starts to move again, gingerly lifting himself up and sliding back down, relishing the burn. 

John comes before Paul does, shooting off long ropes that splatter across Paul’s abdomen, globs of it tangling in the hair on his stomach. It takes Paul a few more thrusts before he comes, body jerking and hips bucking. John slowly pulls off, wincing at the feeling of Paul’s come oozing out his ass, and collapses on the bed. 

“Shit,” Paul declares emphatically, still panting. “That was bloody good, Johnny.” 

“Yeah,” John agrees, reaching over to wrap an arm around Paul’s waist. “It was damn good, son.”

“I’ll grab that towel, hold on.” Paul leverages himself forward and grabs the towel with the tips of his fingers before falling back against the bed. He mops himself up before motioning for John to roll onto his belly 

“You’re quite the nursemaid, Paulie,” John quips as Paul cleans him up, earning himself a light smack on the bum. 

“Always have been a cheeky lad, haven’t you?” 

“Sure have.” John rolls over and pulls Paul into his arms, smiling at the way Paul relaxes into the embrace. 

After a few minutes of companionable silence, Paul shifts and stretches his arms. 

“I should probably go soon,” he says around a yawn, and John’s stomach clenches in apprehension. 

“Right now?” he asks, hating how needy he sounds choking on the words. “Can’t you stay a little longer?” 

“I don’t want Linda to come home and find me gone.” 

John furiously blinks away the tears that flood his eyes, the familiar thought that Paul doesn’t _really_ love him already on repeat in his mind. 

Except then John remembers the way Paul had gazed up at him — the brief moment of vulnerability that had softened his features.

“Will you miss me?” John knows he sounds pathetic, but he wants to hear Paul say it. 

“Of course I will. I’ll miss you all the time.”

“When will I see you again?” 

“I can try to fly out here in a few weeks. I’ll think of some excuse.” Paul pauses and kisses John’s jaw. “It would be easy if you came home, you know. We could go to Cavendish, just like the old days.” 

“I’m trying. Yoko doesn’t want to go to England. She’s afraid I’ll want to stay.” Paul stiffens in his arms.

“You shouldn’t let her keep you from your family. If you want to be in England then you should bloody well be there, shouldn’t you?”

“It’s not that simple, Paul.”

“Oh bullshit.” Paul sits up and angrily leans over John to grab the pack of Galouises. “She’s got your balls in a death grip, mate.” He lights up the cigarette and sucks in forcefully. “And it’s getting ridiculous.” 

John has the sudden, nasty thought that he’d love to smack Paul’s oh-so-pretty face, but he manages to restrain himself when he sees the first tear run down Paul’s cheek. 

“Paul, Jesus, don’t cry.” John reaches for him, but he jerks away, unsteadily climbing out of bed. 

“I’m not crying.” He starts to pull his clothes on, harsh, poorly-suppressed sobs escaping his mouth every few seconds. 

“Paul,” John says sternly — a little shakily — as tears brim up and burn his eyes like salt in the ocean. “Come here, baby.” 

They sit there holding each other for a long time. In a testament to their differences, John allows himself to weep openly, while Paul promptly pulls himself together, the sobs disappearing faster than they’d started. 

Paul cradles John’s face in his hands and kisses the tears away, chasing them with his soft, full lips. 

“I’ll see you soon. I promise.” 

Paul gives John one last chaste kiss before he leaves, like an apparition vanishing in the wind. John dons his hat and sunglasses and goes home alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ??? John is so hard to write. I'm so sorry if this sucked, I just got tired with toying with it tbh. 
> 
> Idk how long it will be until the next chapter b/c with school back, my life is super busy. I'm very excited about my ideas for the next chapters though so !!! they'll be here eventually. 
> 
> Anyway, lmk what you thought abt it! Comments are ace, my friends.


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